


It’s Worth It, It’s Divine

by Irrelevancy



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece & Rome, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Crossdressing, F/M, Feminist Themes, M/M, Magic, Multi, Philosophy, Sexual Coercion, Social Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-20 14:56:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3654576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrelevancy/pseuds/Irrelevancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Grantaire calls Enjolras Apollo, who Enjolras isn’t (but Grantaire is, however, Dionysus). Ancient Greek!AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because I thought I'd turn the usual Enjolras-as-Apollo storyline around a bit. Featuring Dionysus!Grantaire, Hecate!Feuilly, Hephaestus!Bahorel, Asclepius!Joly, and Persephone!Jehan, as well as other original Greek gods and goddesses. My love for my Classics course knows no bounds, and where else would I expend my knowledge on Greek myths and culture, except fic?

He first saw the mortal through rainy sunlight, bright yellow that dripped down the sky and into golden hair. _Son of Apollo— he must be_ , was Grantaire’s first rational thought. Olive skin smooth as river rock, vivid eyes like drawn arrows fix on the distance.

 _I may have him_ , was Grantaire’s first _ir_ rational thought. 

His name was Enjolras, a beloved shepherd boy of some small northern town. The rumors of his divine birth came, interestingly enough, _after_ he was grown— he and his mother spent the first seventeen years of his life in exile. As an adult, Enjolras was said to have carried his ailing mother to the top of a mountain, where she was ordered to recuperate by Asclepius himself. There he built her a palace. Afterwards he descended the mountain and came to a town, where he promised great riches to the stingy shepherd in exchange for his flock. The shepherd agreed to his deal, and every morning, Enjolras would tirelessly lead his sheep up the mountain to graze where his mother lived, bringing food and supplies, and every evening descend to sleep in an inn in the village. When the shepherd came to demand his promised riches, Enjolras sat him down by the fireside and told him great tales filled with gods and heroes and monsters. When all the stories in the world had been exhausted, Enjolras spoke with the shepherd of philosophy— ethics, the good and wrongs of the knowable world. The young man’s orations opened up the stingy shepherd’s heart and, one hundred days later, the old shepherd died a satisfied and peaceful death. He left his house and lands to Enjolras, who now lived a humble life tending to his mother and his sheep. The townspeople, awed by his beauty and poetics, spoke quick rumors of what must be divine parentage, though Enjolras himself had never discussed such matters.

Such a tale of filial piety impressed Grantaire as much as it made him wary. He _understood_ family, after all, all the strengths and cracks in its structure; institutions founded on principles of obeisance were well within Grantaire’s purview as the God of Wine, the life-force liquid of civilizations. As someone responsible for the dissolution of _many_ fraught family ties, Grantaire wondered if he could do the same here, if there was, perhaps, a point of weakness he could wedge his fingers into and pull apart.

So he put the boy— the _beautiful_ boy— to test. Taking on a mortal form (young, lithe, thick lashes and beckoning eyes), Grantaire swathed himself in traveling robes and descended on the town. Eos brought the dawn, and Grantaire knocked at Enjolras’s door bathed in gaudy pink light; he quite enjoyed the wide-eyed look of surprise on the youth’s face when Enjolras looked upon him.

“Who are you?” Enjolras asked, voice schooled into a level of politeness within the dictates of _xenia_. Grantaire had half a mind to transform into a lascivious old man and watch Enjolras’s smooth features contort in disgust, revealing some opinionated nature instead of remaining bland. “What do you seek of me?”

“Answers, if you have them,” was Grantaire’s response. He made to step forward and felt a burst of excitement when Enjolras didn’t back away— even frowned slightly. “In return, I bring you a gift of questions, which I will gladly reveal if you should show me in.”

Enjolras’s hand, previously held hidden behind the threshold, now revealed itself to be holding a shepherding staff. The young man himself was cloaked and sandaled, and from his back hung a satchel of bread and cheese as well as a wineskin. Grantaire licked his lips at the sight, and caught Enjolras’s gaze flitting downward. With a little smirk, the god pressed even closer, and Enjolras finally stepped back— but not without raising his staff in defense. 

“I am a shepherd, and was on my way to tend to my herd,” he announced, voice hard. “If you are a traveler in need of supplies I can gladly show you my stores, but if you seek shelter you’ll have to return at sundown—” 

“I’ve already told you what I want, and it is neither of those things,” Grantaire interrupted. Affecting boredom, he cocked his hip and leaned against the doorway. Enjolras’s brow furrowed in anger. “Send someone else to tend your sheep— letting some dumb beasts loose on a pasture is hardly an artisan’s task. I will provide the gold for payment if you’d like.”

“I’ve other matters to tend to on the mountain, besides the skill-less task anybody else can do,” Enjolras replied stiffly. Holding his shoulders taut, Enjolras sidestepped Grantaire and forcibly closed the door behind him, dislodging Grantaire from his perch. Grantaire bit back a vicious grin and turned to face his unwilling host.

“Ah yes, so I’ve heard,” Grantaire scoffed with a toss of his long hair. “Word in town is that you not only play shepherd, but also nurse. Are you truly so eager to go to your caretaking duties? The blacksmith offers to sell you his daughter’s veils and skirts.”

Instead of growing more angry like Grantaire had predicted, all of Enjolras’s tension seemed to abruptly fade. Instead, Enjolras smirked in disdainful amusement.

“I am not ashamed to be in the service of the woman who bore me,” Enjolras spoke. He enunciated his words as if he were speaking to an immature child, and Grantaire could feel his hackles rising. “You’ve consorted with the blacksmith, I’m sure he will gladly provide you hospitality and answers of any sort— if you’ll excuse me. I hope you have a pleasant stay in this town.”

His mouth slightly agape, Grantaire watched Enjolras turn on his heels and begin to walk away. Of all the retorts he had expected the mortal to give, _that_ was not only startling, but also… _latent_. In all of Grantaire’s years as a god, he had never heard such a self-possessed and assured defense from a Greek man against accusations of femininity. Usually there were drawn swords or— in one spectacular case— cross-dressing and attempted matricide. Grantaire wondered what principles Enjolras must hold to make such a response, wondered what potentials were contained within the man and what changes he could wrought to the Greek-speaking world. That far-shooting glare— it had the force of thunder and earthquakes. Grantaire has craved explosions for _decades._

“The blacksmith has no answers for me— he is a fool obsessed with muscles and the girth of his arms,” Grantaire called. There was a brief stutter in Enjolras’s strides, and Grantaire quickly fell into step behind him. He only grinned at Enjolras’s exasperated look. “You, however, clearly have a brain. I wish to hear your thoughts. The only solution is for me to follow you, so it would appear.”

“ _So it would appear_ —” Enjolras repeated incredulously, stopping in the middle of the path before his eyes narrowed. “You never answered my question, who _are_ you?”

“Who do you think I am?” Grantaire asked cheekily.

“Honestly? In the beginning I had thought you were some manner of divinity,” Enjolras answered bluntly, his arms crossing over his chest. Grantaire blinked in surprise. “But I see clearly now that you are _far_ too irritating to be anything of the sort. You’ve asked around about me, and say you have questions— the scales are imbalanced, don’t you think? I’ll tell you now that I will not _let_ you follow me unless you answer some of my questions first.”

“Gladly,” Grantaire said with a gracious bow. “All my knowledge is at your service. Though of course, I am but a humble being, and know really quite little—”

“Let’s start with your _name_.”

Enjolras’s request sounded surprisingly earnest (everything about him was surprising), and Grantaire found himself carefully considering the best way to answer. He couldn’t say Dionysus, of course, nor any of the great epithets bequeathed on the god (as if Enjolras would even believe him). To say “Grantaire” would be the truth— his fellow godly friends were good enough to still call him by his name, and not his attributes. For one breathless moment, he wondered how his name would sound coming from Enjolras’s lips. It would be yelled, probably, scolding— Enjolras might bellow his name in anger, _Grantaire!_ hitting the air like a warning bell, clear and ringing.

But the moment was brief. Names… Names had power. Human names commanded whole histories, gods’ names invoked songs. Grantaire knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that his days as a human were over, and he had no business handing out his old name.

“R,” he finally said. “I just go by R.”

(But oh how sweet it would sound from his tongue. _Grantaire!_ It wouldn’t be enough to immortalize it in any song, Grantaire would tear the voice of Echo from its cave and trap it in a jar like the sins of Pandora, keep it with him into eternity so he may listen to it forever. _Grantaire!_ )

“R,” Enjolras said, testing the title on his tongue with a skeptical quirk of an eyebrow. “Alright, fine. I presume you already know my name.”

“I would love to hear it from you all the same,” Grantaire said sweetly. Enjolras rolled his eyes and began walking again— the victory was in the way he didn’t look back before speaking, as if expecting Grantaire to trot after him (which of course, Grantaire did, happily).

“Enjolras,” he said simply. “Son of Astris.”

Grantaire thought he would surprise Enjolras this time and _not_ ask about his father—Enjolras glanced over with a noncommittal blink, which was a win in Grantaire’s book.

“Well Enjolras,” he hummed, quickening his pace until he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the blond. Dust rolled behind his scuffing steps, and Grantaire could smell rich vines vying to spring from the earth. The day seemed ripe with possibilities. “Let’s not keep Lady Astris waiting, shall we? We’ve a mountain to climb, after all.”

* * *

“You’ve not brought any food with you— don’t presume I’ll share, I’ve only brought enough for one.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t be needing any food.”

“…And water? Sure there are springs along the way but they are few and far between.”

“Oh I’m sure I’ll make do.” 

“Shoes? There’s a thicket of brambles up ahead, can your ragged straw sandals hold out?”

“They’ll hold.”

“…You’re going to make me ask, aren’t you?” Enjolras finally asked, throwing his arms up in exaggeration. The sheep ambled on ahead of them, though a couple that trailed behind were momentarily startled by his sudden action. Glaring at Grantaire, Enjolras dug his walking staff harder into the ground. “Out with it already!”

“I’m afraid I’m not quite sure what you mean,” Grantaire said innocently, fighting hard not to cackle. While Enjolras was busy fuming, he quickly repaired the worn-out ends of his sandals with magic, weaving them through with grass and straw from the very earth around them. Nature was singing in Grantaire’s veins, and he longed for a cool drink of wine to accompany the sun.

“Your _questions_ ,” Enjolras bit out. “Of course, if you have no questions, you are welcome to turn back around and get off my mountain—”

“Whoa, whoa, sorry, I’ll ask my questions,” Grantaire quickly placated, waving down Enjolras’s expectant scowl. “Just stop before you offend some territorial mountain nymphs. They’re vicious creatures, you know? Have killed better men than you or I.”

Figuratively speaking, of course. Grantaire hardly believed in those popular notions of “good” and “bad” men— heroes tend to do as much bad as they do good, and no one ever seemed to mean “undeserving” when they say “better men.” Then again, Enjolras, standing before him in all his pious beauty, was probably the very Greek definition of a “better man.” Certainly he was, compared to Grantaire.

Ah, that would be a good question. Grantaire whistled a little birdsong. Let’s start there.

“Define what it is to be a good man,” Grantaire pronounced. Clearing his throat when he received no immediate answer, he added, “of course, that is more a request than a question. I can rephrase if you’d like.”

“No, no, that’s fine,” Enjolras replied absently. His gaze had already taken on that faraway quality Grantaire had first admired— as if he could break apart the geometries of the sky and see the very answer to reality itself. “Give me a moment to think.”

“Think aloud, if you will,” Grantaire said softly. “ _How_ you arrive at your conclusion is as much a part of the answer.”

“…Alright.” Enjolras’s expression was something peculiar as he looked on Grantaire, but he quickly refocused. “A good man— a good _person_ is someone who brings benefits to their community without exploiting others. Anyone can be good— Antigone who holds strong her values in face of judicial persecution, but also the maiden who weaves endless linens for her family’s use.”

“And that is something else.” Grantaire spoke with disbelief in his voice. “You consistently elevate the status of women in your speech— why is that?”

The sun was beginning to glare overhead, and Enjolras shielded his eyes with a hand. To Grantaire’s left, a lamb had dawdled behind the pack, and with a sharp click of his tongue and a well-aimed pebble, Grantaire sent the lamb scampering forward again.

“A question for a question,” Enjolras proposed. “You ask one, I ask one. You must answer truthfully, though— otherwise I would have no incentive to do the same.”

Grantaire inclined his head. “Fair enough.”

“Why is it that you are surprised that I would elevate women?” Enjolras quickly retorted. His attention momentarily scattered, Grantaire almost tripped on a tendril splayed across the ground. 

“I know what you want me to say,” he said teasingly. “I know you want me to confront my own social prejudices as a man against women.”

“If you already know, then why ask such a—”

“—but I also have a different answer for you.” A thick bank of clouds drifted over the sun, and Grantaire wasn’t doing it on purpose, he really wasn’t. Beneath their feet the dirt grew wet and sucking, their trek growing more strenuous as the slope inclined. “In my life I have met kings and princes and heroes— and none were as adamant as you in egalitarian efforts. I’ve come to learn that men with social status, military prowess, good looks, they so _easily_ succumb to oppressive methods of power. I’ve met proud kings who would hire then execute prostitutes in the same breath, lauded generals who beat their wives and daughters, handsome young men who mocked the veiled maidens and took women as their due. You ask me why I am surprised— they are why. This whole supposedly _civilized_ people are why. They don’t see the blood— or rather, they choose to ignore it. _You_ see it, and I want to know why.”

Why is it, precisely, that this world in shambles managed to keep a pair of eyes so brilliant. Being a god, Grantaire was rarely wrong, so when he had given up on this toxic society he was _dead certain_ there was no light left. Even Olympus burned dark. But here… here stood a dangerous creature, one that made his half-mortal blood run hot in Grantaire’s veins.

“I see it, I’ve always seen it,” Enjolras answered steadily, eyes flashing. His hand flexed at his side, fingers fanning out as if to ward off demons. “It’s hard to ignore the condemning prejudices of people when you are the only son of a persecuted woman, looking like I do. They call me fair now, but in another conversation they will as soon call me womanish, as you very well know. What I want to know is why _you_ see it.”

Grantaire barked out a laugh, cool and harsh. 

“If there is darkness in the world, it is my friend. I am a master of poisons.” He sketched a bow and let his voice dip sardonically deep. “Do not get your hopes up, shepherd, I don’t have as virtuous reasons as you— I bear witness, is all. Prophets and seers, they may know of what’s to come, but they don’t affect change. That is what I am; that is what every silent beneficiary is, caught in quicksand that’s too comfortable to escape—”

“That’s an awfully cynical view,” Enjolras criticized. Grantaire just spread his arms out wide to gesture at the great, dank world Enjolras apparently couldn’t see.

“—it’s _realistic_. Cassandra’s plight is real in all of us, in face of so great a deity as _societal structure_. It’s as ancient and unchangeable as Tartarus.”

“What about the gods, then?”

“What about them?” Grantaire snorted. “They’re the ones who started all this, dear Father Zeus. They’re worshipped, they’re beloved— call up some plague or drought every other decade and you’ve got yourself another temple. They are the kings above the kings, there’s no incentive for them to abandon their thrones.”

Zeus could throw down a lightning bolt and strike Grantaire dead right now and he wouldn’t take back his words. Then, Enjolras turned a bold look on him, one completely inappropriate for the deliberate heathen Grantaire just proved himself to be— one of incredible attentiveness. Grantaire has only ever received that look when he committed some godly act, and here was Enjolras, watching him like he had just sprung a fountain of wine in a charred desert.

“I don’t disagree with your words,” Enjolras spoke, “only the hopelessness in your eyes.”

“Funny,” Grantaire murmured, “that hopelessness is just about the only thing I believe in.”

“Ask your next question,” Enjolras prompted. Then, “actually, I’ll ask it for you.”

“Alright,” Grantaire allowed, amused. “Do your worst.”

“Your next question is, _Enjolras, do you like the gods?_ ” and Grantaire almost choked— partly from laughter at Enjolras’s mocking attempt to imitate Grantaire’s deeper voice, partly from the sheer audacity of Enjolras’s question. Enjolras, though a little red in the ears, did not back down. “And my answer would be yes, when I see excited young women leaving the house for the first time to serve at Artemis’s temple. Yes, when farming women hold the fruits of Demeter’s harvest proudly in their arms. Yes, when Helios warms the earth.” 

They’ve come to a stretch of green bordered by forest, an ideal pasture for the sheep. A small tendril of smoke curled from just one more hill over, where the house of Astris was. Enjolras paused in his steps, pulling off his wineskin and took a draw. To Grantaire’s surprise, he held out the wineskin in offering. Hesitating a beat too long, Grantaire had no choice but to take it, pressing the lip slowly to his mouth and drinking the liquid within. The wine tasted cheap and disgusting, even without Enjolras watering it down— and with a grimace, Grantaire replaced the putrid taste with something of distinctly higher quality, inwardly reminding himself to do the same with all the wine Enjolras kept at home. He handed the skin back to Enjolras, whose features were still soft with contemplation.

“But my answer would also be no,” he continued, beginning to walk again, this time leaving the sheep behind. “Every time some petty rivalry between the gods sends kingdoms to war. Every time Hera ruins a woman’s life instead of rightfully blaming her adulterous husband. Every time Ares spills blood.”

Enjolras’s voice rose in crescendo as he spoke, anger reverberating as if the whole mountain, the whole sky agreed. Grantaire felt breathless by the sheer potentiality of the whole scene, like the clouds were about to part and Mount Olympus would collapse— all because of one man’s voice, ringing through the air.

“I am not the only one angry,” Enjolras declared. “Other people are. Other _gods_ are. Would Prometheus have dared defy Zeus otherwise? There can be change.”

…And the magic collapsed. Grantaire felt almost bad, but Enjolras was evidently operating from some unfortunate misconceptions— someone has got to set him straight.

“Nope.” His popped the _p_ obnoxiously loud and kicked up a volley of dead leaves, setting off startled scurries throughout the low-sitting bushes all around. “No way. Prometheus was _punished_ for wanting to evoke change. Tantalus suffers a fate worse than death for trying to bring down the gods. They are the powerful, humans are the weak; as long as there stands this great divide between the mortal and the immortal they will never lose power. And in turn, there will always be this system of horrible men and sad women. Whatever you want to dream, Enjolras, sorry, that’s the way it’s going to be.”

Grantaire chanced a glance over at his companion, expecting indignant fury— but he found something more strange. Accusation, maybe? Enjolras’s brows were furrowed in frustration as he glowered at Grantaire, his lips frozen in parting as if he were swallowing back fighting words. There was also determination in the set of his shoulders, the single swallow Grantaire could trace all the way down Enjolras’s throat as he prepared himself for _something_.

 And that’s when Grantaire realized Enjolras knew.

“One god crosses that divide, does he not?” And Grantaire almost laughed in surrender. “ _He_ is only half-divine, yet was able to prove his worth to Zeus and join the ranks of the Olympians. Does _he_ not speak to a bridging gap between the mortals and immortals? Does the threat of Bacchanal frenzy not dissuade men from seeing women as passive, domesticated things? I think I’d place my hopes in him.”

Grantaire, a little ahead of Enjolras, had stopped in his steps. Enjolras approached with an unreadable expression, pausing only when their shoulders could brush. With his walking stick, Enjolras poked gently at Grantaire’s mended sandals.

“You’ve been watching me,” Grantaire accused half-heartedly.

“How could I not?” Enjolras answered, voice soft yet a little stiff with embarrassment all at once. Grantaire could kiss him, could prostrate himself at Enjolras’s feet. _Don’t place your hopes in me_ , Grantaire wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t leave his throat. _I have nothing to offer you but disappointment._

“You don’t like that I have hope,” Enjolras said, a bit of displeasure creeping back into his tone, and Grantaire could feel his own tension easing. “But that’s the way things are. You can’t expect to just cut that out of me.”

“But I can expect to change your mind.”

“You can _try_ ,” Enjolras retorted, accompanied by a fierce grin. Grantaire felt himself craving some distance, weighing the merits of a strategic retreat in the face of so great a foe. Something old and forgotten was bubbling inside him— a craving for a sunrise. He wanted to see something so bright and burning it can _purge_ , like the great floods of the old days. But no, there can be no such thing, not from Enjolras— the floods were what wiped the earth clean of people like this, placed god-fearing men in their stead and populated the world with terrified obedience. At the end of the day, Enjolras was still just a man.

…And yet, he spoke as if he’s moved more mountains than the Earthshaker, won more wars than Athena _Promachos_. How? And why did Grantaire so desperately want to believe him?

Enjolras began walking again, and Grantaire fell in step behind him in silence. Both were tangled in their own thoughts, and pretty soon Grantaire’s abandoned his twisting mind in frustration. He turned his attentions to the earth instead, feeling the potential of it, cultivating wildflowers and fruit-bearing vines beneath each step. He longed for wine, something to dull his wits and sooth the sharp edges of his more angry thoughts— but he didn’t want to ask it from Enjolras. He didn’t want to ask _anything_ from Enjolras right now.

They quickly arrived at the house. It was a modest affair, all things considered— a wooden cabin larger than would expected for the occupation of one elderly woman. Grantaire stopped at the oak front door.

“You’re not coming in?” Enjolras drawled sarcastically, one hand on the door handle. Grantaire quirked a little smile, all of his prior charm and charisma completely dissipated.

“Nah,” he said easily, already stepping backwards down the path they had come from. The sun was high and warm, beat down on the little furrows lining Enjolras’s frown, the smudge of dirt on his temple— he looked more human than ever, nothing but a shepherd’s boy. Or so Grantaire kept trying to convince himself. His mind may be wrought with confusion, but there was one thought he could keep clear: he had no place in that house with Enjolras and his mother. “I’ll be going now. Take care.”

“You came all this way with me for… nothing?” A hint of uncertainty entered Enjolras’s voice, his shoulders hunching in protectively as he crossed his arms. A thousand and one potential retorts came to Grantaire’s mind ( _what would you offer me in return?_ ), but deciding to give Enjolras some respite (and to leave with _some_ good graces), he only shook his head.

“I would hardly say for nothing.”

Then Grantaire really turned to go. He tried to keep his pace ambling, but knew he was stepping across the earth at a far swifter rate than was explainable for any human, the tangles of weeds and fallow earth smoothing for him underfoot.

Then, a little ways behind him, Enjolras called, “I will see you again?”

 _He will be the fall of me_ , Grantaire thought with utmost clarity, as if the Delphic Oracle herself were speaking in his head. _I will change by him._

And somehow, this optimistic little thought had staying power; it brought a small, hopeless grin to Grantaire’s lips, and after a moment of deliberation, he turned around, his own expression unknown to him. Enjolras looked surprised, though, and a smattering of red was making its way up his neck, so Grantaire wasn’t too worried. 

“You can count on it,” he said, waving a hand. “See you around, Apollo.”

And from the woods behind him, Grantaire felt a sudden wave of magic, strong and godly. _Oh,_ he thought, _this will be fun._

* * *

Artemis alighted with a flash of silver light and a deafening roar of a bear that only Grantaire could hear. She looked _furious_ — but before she could draw her bow or just plain punch Grantaire in the face, there was a loud pop and a puff of smoke, and Feuilly appeared. With a stern expression, Feuilly pointed a warning finger at Artemis.

“Wait,” they said quite simply, but that was enough to make Artemis huff and turn back into the forest (if Grantaire listened carefully, he could make out her grumbling under her breath). The masochistic and possibly suicidal side of Grantaire wanted to rib her a little, but Feuilly now turned that reprimanding look on _him_ , and it was Grantaire’s turn to get shifty-eyed. After a long silence, Feuilly sighed, and said, “We need to talk.”

“Yes,” Grantaire replied, “I _will_ marry you. Oh how I have waited for this day—”

“Tell me,” Feuilly interrupted with the weariness of someone far too used to dealing with Grantaire, “about that mortal.”

“Oh, you know.” When he wanted to, Grantaire affected apathy quite well— patron god of theater and all that. “He’s a shepherd, beautiful, charismatic, possibly half-divine, wants to overthrow the current societal system. No big deal.”

“Sounds like he and I ought to be friends,” was Feuilly’s dry reply. 

“Oh yeah, I’m sure he’ll love _you_.” Yet for all his acting skills, Grantaire couldn’t quite keep the tension of potential jealousy out of his voice. Enjolras _would_ love Feuilly, surely all the interest Enjolras had shown Grantaire was only because Grantaire was a god, and once Enjolras met all of the other deities— the actually honorable and proper ones— he would transplant his interest in a heartbeat. Grantaire cleared his throat. “You know, we had a fascinating conversation about gender roles—”

“ _Grantaire_.” Feuilly’s expression had softened, and an awkward smile quirked their lips. “I’m talking about your feelings for him.”

“You come into my house, and use that kind of language? How dare you.”

“I can leave right now and sic the Huntress on you,” Feuilly threatened.

“That might be preferable to _feelings_.” With a grunt and a swipe of his palm over his face, Grantaire reminded himself that his friend really and truly meant well. Of course, that didn’t mean he wanted to put up with this. “Why are you even here?”

“Deity of Crossroads, remember? Hey—” Grudgingly, Grantaire lifted his head. Feuilly was regarding him with a careful look. “—I came because I sensed that this was a big moment of change.”

“For me?” Grantaire had definitely meant to inflect more sarcasm in that question— instead he landed somewhere on the more plaintive end of things.

“…For everyone.” 

At this point, Grantaire finally put his finger on the strange feeling in the air— Feuilly was using their magic. It enveloped them like a blanket, and if Grantaire stretched out his hand to touch, his fingers came away wet with condensation. Grantaire turned a curious look on Feuilly, who grimaced.

“Shielding, so none of the higher-ups hear our heresy. Wish I’d done this when you were still talking to your mortal, though.”

“You’re a gem,” Grantaire said faintly. “Though of course, in the grand scheme of things, there is only dead and suffering, or whatever, so—”

“Okay, R? Enough of this bullshit and listen to me?” Feuilly took a deep breath, and the shrouding mist around them grew thicker. Grantaire wanted to run screaming, but just curled in on himself some more. At some point, Grantaire had backed into a tree (had it been there before? he had just grown it? who knew), and he gladly pressed himself hard into it. Feuilly, blessedly, didn’t draw any closer. “I know we’re not close, but I _do_ care for you. And for all of your boundary-blurring with mortals, I’ve never felt you _glow_ like you did with Enjolras.”

Grantaire couldn’t help himself, cutting in with irritation, “Yeah yeah, and you wanted to make sure I don’t screw things up, I get it—”

“ _No_.” Feuilly sounded sad, and they took a step back. Maybe Grantaire should have reached out and held his hand or something, but Feuilly was taking the shrouding mist with them and Grantaire longed to see the sky. Be exposed again like a raw nerve, courting death with every acid-laden word. To be subversive is to hope for affecting actual change, and every drop of ichor in Grantaire’s body found that possibility repellent. “I want to make sure you’re not hurt.”

“That— makes no sense,” Grantaire replied, genuinely confused. “Why would I be hurt?” 

“Better gods than you and I,” Feuilly said with a shrug. They held themself still where others would fidget in discomfort, and they now stood still as a statue. Grantaire decided to do both of them a favor and cut them loose. 

“Alright, I’ll be careful, though I’m still not really sure of what,” Grantaire allowed. “You can leave now, I know you must have better things to do than corral wayward assholes. Just—” With a light frown, Grantaire inclined his head toward the cabin behind him. “—use your witchy powers to keep an eye out for him, please? A bit of a trouble-maker, that one.”

“Believe me, I know,” Feuilly mumbled, which— did that mean Feuilly knew Enjolras? Personally? How? Since when?

But Grantaire bit back the slew of questions for far too many reasons, instead just watched Feuilly wave goodbye and disappear. Next time he talked to Enjolras, Grantaire decided, he would ask about any strange magical occurrences that Enjolras might have experienced, possibly at crossroads. Enjolras didn’t really seem the type to invoke Hecate, but, well, it wasn’t like Grantaire was an expert on the man.

The brief conversation with Feuilly proved itself too stressful when, having completely forgotten about Artemis, Grantaire was startled into a shout when he turned around and practically ran into the goddess. A small crack appeared in the earth beneath Grantaire’s feet, and Artemis looked on, distinctly unimpressed. An arrow was missing from her quiver, and her hands were hidden behind her folded arms, but Grantaire could just make out smears of red around her nails.

“Oh come on, Huntress,” Grantaire laughed with his most brilliant smile, “it was just a joke.”

“Granting a mortal the honor of my brother’s name?” Artemis snarled, baring her teeth. Grantaire cringed as some rabid beast or another rustled the bushes behind him. “Leave the jests to Hermes, Winemaker. I ought to slaughter the mortal where he stands—”

“ _Don’t_.” Thunderous with anger, Grantaire’s voice would’ve been enough to send even the toughest of heroes scurrying. Artemis, however, didn’t even bat an eye— she even tightened her grip on her bow, as if preparing to draw. Quickly forcing himself to calm down (if history has taught Grantaire anything, it was that threatening a god usually tended to escalate the situation and cause an exponential increase in casualties— not to mention pissing off Artemis meant facing down her and her brother both), Grantaire held up placating arms. “It’s not a big deal— look, Apollo isn’t even here himself, he must not be all that angry.”

Artemis’s glare alone could flay the Nemean Lion, not to mention her hands curling into fists at her side. 

“You need to understand something, _Dionysus_.” She spat his name like poison, and underfoot, Grantaire could hear serpents hiss. “What makes a god is honor. Pelias prays the wrong way, and Hera destroys his family. Arachne boasts to be the greatest weaver, Athena turns her into a repulsive insect. Niobe claims she is a better mother than Leto? My brother and I execute all her children. All this, solely for the sake of honor.” Lightning quick, Artemis’s hand shot out and shoved into Grantaire’ shoulder with enough force to fell a tree. He cringed back, and Artemis sneered. “You, with your band of raging Maenads and sordid satyrs may not know this, but without the respect of mortals, the gods are _nothing_. Do you think my vow of chastity would mean anything if men did not fear me as a god?”

…And he knew, of course he knew. Enjolras had said that Grantaire won a god’s honor as if it were a thing to be proud of, but all Grantaire did was play the game— the same despicable game that all gods played, to strike fear into the hearts of mortals in order to ensure a cushy life of worship. With a frustrated sigh, Grantaire bowed his head in apology. 

“Truly, I am sorry,” he said, staring at Artemis’s bare feet. She had delicate, girly ankles that Grantaire had seen transform into bone-breaking hooves and flesh-rending claws alike. “How can I offer you amends?” 

“Go talk to my brother, not me,” she huffed. Grantaire blinked up imploringly until finally, Artemis crossed her arms and stamped one foot in frustration. “Fine— Hephaestus promised my brother a new sort of arrow, and I want it first. Go fetch it for me before Apollo gets it, and I’ll forgive your slight.”

 _I’ll leave Enjolras alone_. Grantaire was already plotting out his itinerary in his head, but he had to ask. 

“Let me get this straight.” He was very careful to keep his voice even and nonjudgmental, knowing how quick Artemis was to anger, the spoiled _brat_ that she was. “You’re angry with me for sullying your brother’s honor, so in return, you want me to steal your brother’s stuff for you?”

They both whipped into action with little preempt. Artemis had loosed an arrow just as Grantaire sprung an overhang of vines in its trajectory. The arrow ripped its way through a solid ten meters of vine before becoming entangled and halting in its track, aimed straight for Enjolras’s house. With a growl, Grantaire wielded his thyrsus and was about to strike at Artemis when a clap of thunder shook the air. Simultaneously, a bright flash of light momentarily blinded Grantaire— and Artemis as well, if her yell of surprise was any indication. By the time he got his sight back, Iris was standing between them, hands held up with a nervous expression on her face.

“Father Zeus does not like his children fighting,” she delivered the message. All around her, the power of Zeus was sparking, and Grantaire flinched away. “A bargain has been made— I am to escort Dionysus to Hades to resolve Lady Artemis’s anger. After the trade is complete, there is to be no more continuation of this strife.”

Artemis, ever the favored daughter, easily stood close to the messenger goddess. Rolling her eyes, she nodded and turned to leave. Grantaire, who stood a little bit apart, bowed sarcastically deep and scattered petals in her wake. Looking distinctly uncomfortable, Iris just offered Grantaire her hand. She simply said, “Hephaestus awaits.”

Holding back a wistful sigh, Grantaire tried not to glance behind him to where he had left Enjolras— Hephaestus’s workshop was at least a three-day round trip, even with the messenger goddess’s as expedient means of travel. He had been so looking forward to his next conversation with Enjolras.

 _Perhaps it is for the best_ , Grantaire thought morosely to himself, taking Iris’s hand with a faint polite smile. They shot through the sky, trajectory arching like a rainbow. The journey would take the three days necessary for Enjolras to think things through and realize what a tremendous mistake he would have been making, associating himself with the God of Wine. In threatening Enjolras, Artemis was actually saving Enjolras from Grantaire— her ultimatum was a blessing in disguise. The irony was enough to make Grantaire laugh.

“Take that, Huntress,” he muttered under his breath.

Iris, blessedly, didn’t say a word.

* * *

The trip actually ended up taking four days because when Iris got Grantaire there, the Blacksmith wasn’t home. Grantaire spent a whole afternoon vindictively growing a thicket of thorny berry bushes and pungent grapevines to attract bawdy centaurs in front of his workshop entrance. When Bahorel finally limped his way over the horizon, he took one look at the sulking Grantaire and grimaced before waving his guest in.

“Now I know Feuilly said you’re going through some stuff,” Bahorel began, stripping his traveling leathers off and tossing them into a corner, “and not to sound like an insensitive bastard or anything but can we put that on hold real quick? There’s something really cool I’ve got to show you.”

And that was Bahorel’s tough guy code for _I know neither of us want to talk feelings right now, so let’s just look at something shiny_. After the days he’s had, Grantaire was so grateful he appeared a full storage jar of Bahorel’s favorite wine in the corner. And then disappeared the bushes and vines from the entrance (their growth was difficult in the first place, on dirt made hard and brittle by Hephaestus’s volcano forge).

“Lead the way.”

Beaming, Bahorel took them down to the deeper caves of his workshop. Smooth, sandy rock walls gave way to coarser grains of black and white, streaked with veins of minerals and glistening obsidian. As lovely as the sight was, Grantaire’s favor for crops and plants and wild animals at the _surface_ of the earth made him begin shifting uncomfortably once the heat got a bit too stifling. Bahorel, in his element, wasn’t even sweating, though he did turn back once with a glance of apology.

“I was doing some spring cleaning—” …Which was Bahorel code for _It’s time for Jehan’s six months out of Hades again and I wanted to impress them with some cool Blacksmith thing_ (Grantaire was very well-versed in the Bahorel Code). “—and guess what I dug up?”

“The spear of Achilles, still drenched in the blood of his enemies and the arrogance of youth?” Grantaire drawled. Guffawing heartily, Bahorel clapped a large hand, rough as the rocks around them, to Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire wasn’t small by any means, but Bahorel managed to dwarf him quite substantially.

“That too, but this is cooler.” The Blacksmith’s eyes were dancing with excitement, and it almost made the crazy heat bearable for Grantaire. “Remember when the old Hephaestus trapped Hera in a chair until she explained the circumstances of his birth?”

Grantaire hadn’t been around Olympus for that, what with trying to return to Thebes from all the way in India and all. He did, however, remember the original Dionysus complaining to him about Hera’s parthenogenesis, an ugly baby tossed from Olympus, et cetera et cetera. The old Hephaestus had Bahorel take his place well after all the drama about Hephaestus’s birth, as well as the whole Aphrodite mess. Hephaestus had given his godly title away with old eyes and a kind smile, before disappearing into the volcano that had served faithfully as his forge for centuries. Bahorel inherited not only his workshop, but also the teeming heaps of magic metal creations that were his claims to fame.

“Well, Hephaestus had created that chair to hold gods, and I finally found it,” Bahorel declared in triumph. “I've almost figured out how he did it. Imagine— I can create a whole slew of things, powerful enough to hold gods and giants and titans.”

“And I’m absolutely certain the razzle dazzle old king god will be happy that you did!” Grantaire returned. Bahorel gave him a weird look, but Grantaire hadn’t wanted to call Zeus’s attention by invoking his name. Sure he was a cynic, but he was hardly going to be an instrument in the destruction of his friends’ (probably suicidal) plans to overthrow Olympian dictatorship. That was part of Enjolras’s allure, after all— Grantaire knew of gods who wanted to defy the social order, but for a human to do it? Let’s just say that when Enjolras inevitably ended up in Hades, Grantaire was already coming up with ways to bargain the mortal’s life back.

“It’s not like anybody has to know about it,” Bahorel said, wrinkling his nose in complaint. They had stopped in front of a cave entrance, and he gestured for Grantaire to enter. Just poking his head in, Grantaire could see, sure enough, the infamous chair, sitting front and center around what looked like racks of torture instruments amongst piles of more benign measuring tools. “Whatever I end up making will just… sit here. In one of these caves, in this maze, protected by spells and Cyclopes all over. It would take a real impressive person to actually retrieve it, much less use it on the gods. Practically impossible. There’s no need for the old king to worry. At all. Absolutely not.”

Grantaire snorted at Bahorel’s deliberate facetiousness before stepping forward to examine the chair some more, taking care not to touch it. It was a work of beauty, all gold and round edges. It looked quite comfortable too, honestly. Hephaestus wasn’t lauded as the best Metalsmith for nothing.

“Isn’t it gorgeous?” Bahorel sighed in appreciation. “Hermes told me that even Athena couldn’t get it open when Hera was trapped— not because of any trick mechanism, but somehow, Hephaestus had specified that this chair should unlock only for him. Imagine that— being held in a contraption that will only answer to one person.” 

“Kinky,” Grantaire muttered. When Bahorel shrugged in agreement, Grantaire laughed. “Alright, yes, this is very cool. Thank you for showing me— but I am on a bit of a time crunch. See, the lovely Huntress is going to kill a favored mortal of mine if I don’t hurry back with her arrows, so I’d appreciate if you’d give them to me.”

“Um, aren’t they Apollo’s arrows?” Bahorel asked with a light frown. He was already leading the way back to his main workshop though; he wasn’t going to keep the arrows from Grantaire. Sighing in relief, Grantaire silently blessed his friend for not making him jump through any more hoops.

“Little Sister wants them, who am I to say no?”

“Apollo will have your head if he finds out.”

“I’ll say I was coerced.” Which he was. “Whatever, Apollo can’t do anything to me what I can do back to him.” And frankly, if either of the Divine Twins (or anyone, for that matter) laid a hand on Enjolras, Grantaire was going to make their lives, as well as their entire bloodline’s lives as miserable as humanly possible. Forget the House of Cadmus, forget Medea and Jason— theaters would be weeping for the misfortunes of those poor bastards. Agave and Pentheus were _warm-up acts_. People would fear the wrath of Dionysus yet.

“Well, if you’re sure.” Bahorel handed the arrows over in a packaged bundle. “These are handsome little fellas. Healing arrows— made sense for Apollo. I don’t know why the Huntress would want them.”

“Cool new toys, you know how it is,” Grantaire said, rolling his eyes. He began making his way to the entrance; without Iris to ferry him back, the journey would take some time and dangers yet. Usually, during his travels, Grantaire liked some excitement (a certain kidnapping by pirates came to mind), but this time, he could hardly afford it. And besides, he was quite eager to return to Enjolras— Grantaire’s mind was already listing the thousand questions he wanted to ask the mortal, anticipating Enjolras’s responses. “Alright, I’m off. Thanks, I owe you one.”

“Don’t mention it. But Grantaire?” There was a reason Feuilly and so many others often came to Bahorel for advice and general stability— the man was a rock, with fire-warm eyes and an absoluteness around his movements. The way he pulled Grantaire into a hug should have set off warning bells of discomfort in Grantaire’s head, but Bahorel did it with such certainty that Grantaire remained lax, even brought his arms around to return the hug some. When Bahorel pulled away it was with a friendly, non-judgmental grin. “Bring your mortal around sometimes, won’t you?” 

Grantaire snorted. “And scare him off with your ugly mug?”

“I’ll have you know Hephaestus chose me as successor for my good looks,” Bahorel shot back with a perfectly straight face. Oh how lucky Grantaire was to know such good people. Bahorel’s favorite wine multiplied in the corner, the easiest way Grantaire knew to share his appreciation. He’d find another, grander way to repay Bahorel soon.

And so it was with warmed hands and a content heart that Grantaire left Bahorel’s workshop, anticipating his return to Enjolras’s door.

* * *

“You’re back,” Enjolras said in a rush, his tense poise softening in relief. Grantaire was not unflattered (nor unrelieved), but put on a bemused smile all the same.

“How did you know it was me?” 

This time coming around, Grantaire had chosen to appear in a different guise— slightly taller, more muscular, with shiny coppery hair cropped shorter in military style. He knocked on Enjolras’s front door sharply and with authority, but when Enjolras opened it the door it was as if Grantaire hadn’t even bothered perfecting different mannerisms on the way from Bahorel’s workshop. His recognition was instant, his relief immediately following.

“I don’t—” Enjolras blinked once, twice, as if finally registering that for all intents and purposes, a complete stranger stood in front of him. No doubt entered his gaze though, and he just looked queerly at Grantaire, stepping back a little. “I don’t know. I recognized you, but I can’t say how.”

“Must be the smell,” Grantaire joked, then quickly waving Enjolras out his door before the man could reply. “Come along then, I assume we’ve a long day in front of us.”

“Same arrangement as last time then? Questions and answers?” There was no scorn or misgiving or anything of the sort in Enjolras’s tone, but Grantaire couldn’t help but be disparaging of all general good will. If there were a god of pessimism, he’d be crowned in an instant.

“Unless you’d prefer to play ‘I Spy,’ though spotting the same mountain or every other tree doesn’t sound _quite_ as fun as philosophical discourse,” Grantaire said primly.

“Well, I’m sure the god of vines and agriculture can make that fun,” Enjolras said, peering intently at Grantaire. With a dramatic hiss, Grantaire held a finger to his lips. 

“Come on now, that’s a secret!”

“What, that you’re Diony—”

Grantaire’s finger now moved forward to pressed Enjolras’s lips shut, and the blond fell silent with a skeptical brow quirked. With his free hand, Grantaire pulled Enjolras closer, gaze fixed on where Enjolras’s mouth was slightly parted, his skin paler where Grantaire touched. Sure, they could joke about this, but something Artemis said echoed uncomfortably with Grantaire. Without the mortals, gods are nothing. Enjolras may have this grand dream of total equality, but fact of the matter is, he was human. He would die like a human— easily, carelessly, with a single flick of a divine finger. He had to understand this.

“Names,” Grantaire said quietly, “have power. Right now, I am nobody but R. The moment you call on me as a god is when you need me as a god, not as a companion to pass long days with.”

“Can’t I have you as both?” Enjolras spoke against Grantaire’s finger, sounding strangely troubled. Grantaire shrugged helplessly, reluctantly pulling his hand away.

“I’ve been recently reminded of the necessary divide between gods and men.” When Enjolras didn’t make any move to step away, Grantaire did instead, loping ahead. Behind him, he heard a frustrated sigh, then Enjolras’s quick steps to catch up. He spoke over his shoulder, “but rest assured, I would gladly grant you aid if you ask for it. Any time, any place.”

“But then you will not return to… this?”

Gesturing between them, Enjolras looked… torn. Grantaire knew that look— everyone who has ever lit a fire in worship, clasped hands in prayer wore that look. Enjolras wanted something. Dread and something that felt awfully like disappointment stopped Grantaire’s steps. So at the end of the day, even Enjolras only wanted the god? Grantaire wished that he were less surprised, that he had somehow seen this coming. He wished he had understood Enjolras’s far-seeing gaze as not only idealism, but also the companion desire to make use of all the tools he had at his disposal to achieve that end (Grantaire, of course, being the most useful tool of all— a fucking _god_ ). But somehow, the thought had never crossed his mind, in all the time he had spent in Enjolras’s presence, that Enjolras would ask for— what, fame? glory? magical items? All those things to change the world, certainly, because at his core, Enjolras was good and principled— but that also meant he’d be done with Grantaire once he’s achieved that dream. 

…But such was Grantaire’s lot. He really shouldn’t even be bitter; this was what he signed up for, when he agreed to be a god. Steeling himself, Grantaire turned around with a cold smile. He also let some of his godly essence bleed through, and watched with cruel satisfaction as Enjolras cringed back in surprise. _It is like being on a rowboat and watching the skies turn black_ , a follower of his had once described with trembling hands, _and there’s nothing but seas for miles around, and the waves are swelling into monsters._

“So what can I do for you then, Enjolras?” he asked, voice sonorous in the most violent of ways. Enjolras looked stunned— good, let Grantaire finally get ahead of the game once. “What wish can this helper god grant you? Make it good now, you don’t get three tries with this one.” Though he would, if he’d ask. Grantaire hated knowing that he was so weak.

“Wait a second,” Enjolras began, his palms up and facing Grantaire, “I think you're misunderstanding—”

“There’s no need to front,” Grantaire said, sickeningly sweet. Enjolras bristled at the patronizing tone, hand tightening around his shepherding stick. “I know you want something, just be out with it, and you can move on, do whatever it is you _actually_ want to be doing instead of bothering with me. And I can find someone _else_ to sucker me into granting them immortality or whatever.” 

Enjolras only looked stung for a moment, before leaning back in and scowling with vengeance. “Is that what you think I want?” he asked, voice harsh and angry. “Immortality? Or super strength, perhaps? Or maybe I want to be the most handsome man in the Greek-speaking world!”

“Good news! You already are!” Grantaire yelled back, hands waving wildly through the air. “Now tell me what you want already, so I can get out of your perfect frickin’ hair!” 

Had Grantaire been less riled up, he would’ve noticed how flustered he made Enjolras by his off-handed compliments. But Grantaire’s method of sulking included (but was not limited to) glaring a patch of fast-growing weeds into submission until they crumbled back into the earth. To hide his embarrassment, Enjolras turned and stalked away, but not without dragging Grantaire along behind him by the elbow, clearly not done with the conversation yet. They were headed for the sheep pasture, right behind Enjolras’s house. Enjolras’s fingers dug into Grantaire’s skin, and for a second, Grantaire wished he could bruise.

“I’m not going to ask you for something you’re not willing to give,” Enjolras explained, tone tight with frustration. “You’ve got the wrong idea about me, R, I don’t need a, a god at my beck and call, or whatever. Sure, your ability to do literally _anything_ would be grand, but honestly? If I could have a god or a human, I’d rather have you like this. I like our conversations. Well—” he amended with a self-conscious shake of his head, “—I liked our _one_ conversation. And would love to have more. Um, with you.”

Once, on a sunny summer afternoon in a field of red anemones, Jehan had accused Grantaire of having a horrible habit. _On the off-chance that a compliment actually gets through to you,_ they complained, _you not only deflect it, but you also actively try to say shit that stops the fuzzy feelings in your heart. Stop it, that’s rude_. Never had this habit made itself to apparent to Grantaire than now; he was so tempted to just shoot off his mouth and send Enjolras storming away with his sheep. Do them both the favor and be rid of this pointless dalliance. _But stop it R,_ he scolded himself, picturing Jehan’s chastising frown, _that’s rude._  

Instead, he settled for quickly muttering, “we had _one_ conversation. Aren’t you making it out to be something it’s not?”

Grantaire’s inner Jehan smacked him on the head with a ring-covered hand (Hades kept his beloved in the finest jewels from his domain), which was definitely not fair, because that was truly the least bad of all Grantaire’s possible responses.

And as proof, Enjolras only made an expression of incredulity as he pulled open the gate to the pasture. “If anything, _you’re_ making _me_ out to be what I’m not. Need I remind you that you just said you’d do _anything_ for me?”

Inner-Jehan smirked and said _Ooooh, he’s good_ , and Grantaire waved their obviously useless presence away. Scratching the back of his neck in embarrassment, Grantaire softly kicked a sheep’s behind to get it moving.

“Well, I’m a god, so I know better.” Compliments and the like were truly Grantaire’s downfall— all his wits and retorts fail when it came to stuff like that. Their second meeting, and Enjolras had already relegated Grantaire to childish whining. Maybe he _could_ change the world.

“You’re a god, there are legends and songs and myths about you— I think I know more about you than you about me,” Enjolras countered easily, smirking and looking quite pleased with himself. “Logically, it makes more sense that I like you than you like me.”

Maybe there were birds singing and a sun shining, and flower fragrances flowing through the air— but inside Grantaire’s head was a mess, in his ears a dull roar like a waterfall. All he could manage was a weak, “you like me?”

“… _Yes!_ ”

The collective awkwardness between the two of them finally proved itself too much— with red cheeks and stumbling steps Enjolras chased after his sheep, fast-stepping up the mountain like he was truly eager to get away from the scene. Grantaire understood the urge, and, succumbing to a moment of weakness, collapsed to the ground, sprawling with knees akimbo. He wanted to scream, and ivy grew instead; he wanted to claw up the earth, and a little fountain spouted where his fingers gauged dirt. Some feeling was swelling in his chest, and it felt a lot like anger, except the skies weren’t clouding over like it typically would. It burned too bad to be happiness, at least for now. And all he could think about was Enjolras’s face, how it looked imperfect when it was twisted up in embarrassment, but how bright and joyous a red flush looked on it, how stupidly smug and handsome it was—

Oh _gods_ , Grantaire was _mortified_. He wanted to both flick Enjolras’s stupid little nose and kiss him. He wanted to bury himself alive under Bahorel’s mountain. He wanted to chase after Enjolras.

…He should definitely chase after Enjolras. Thank Dionysus for godly super speed.

Grantaire caught up to Enjolras a little ways up, where Enjolras was prodding a little to aggressively at the backs of his sheep and muttering angrily to himself. Grantaire’s footsteps made little noise, but Enjolras’s head still snapped up like a hound’s the moment Grantaire arrived. His cheeks were still pink, and he quickly looked down, hands dangling helplessly as his herd of sheep ambled leisurely pass. Grantaire almost couldn’t help a hopelessly fond laugh.

“Do you want to know what I was doing for the past four days?” Grantaire asked softly, picking his way through the sheep to get to Enjolras’s side. 

“I assumed some godly business,” Enjolras shrugged, still not quite meeting Grantaire’s eyes. “Lots of prayers and worshippers to see to? The Greater Dionysia will be happening soon, after all.”

…So, yes, Grantaire really should have tended to all of that. But he had gladly forgotten all about those when he had met Enjolras.

“Not quite.” They began following the tail end of the herd, and it was like their first meeting again, all forest birdsong and intent focus. Grantaire could feel the tension between them giving way to a much simpler coexistence. The world was all sharpening to a point in the way Enjolras’s eyes watched Grantaire. “I went on a bit of a journey, actually, but the details actually aren’t important. What _is_ important is that I came up with another question to ask you.”

“You can ask me,” Enjolras said, stepping tentatively closer, “but I also wouldn’t mind hearing about your trip.” 

“I— Oh.”

How truly helpless has Grantaire become? The mountain could split right now and send Grantaire plummeting into Tartarus, and he would grow wings from his back as easily as he would grow vines. He would take Enjolras flying, make it farther than Icarus could straight into the blazing sun. They would be stars together, like all great lovers.

Grantaire had never fallen this fast before.

And so in an unsteady voice, Grantaire began telling Enjolras the story with Artemis. A little ways through, he remembered his patronage in the theater, and grew more animated— just in time to tell Enjolras all about Feuilly and Bahorel (editing out, of course, the murkier topic of Grantaire’s _feelings,_ they had just finished with the whole mess, no need to bring it up again for the foreseeable future). Enjolras was completely engrossed. In weaving this intricate tale, Grantaire barely remembered to take a breath, and would only pause and beam in surprise when Enjolras chuckled at a joke or made a humming noise of interest.

And, one tale led into another, which had to be preluded by another, and by the time Grantaire finished a story about the last time he and Bahorel wreaked havoc on Mount Olympus, it was well into the afternoon. They had long since arrived at the house, and Enjolras had been hovering by the entrance for some time now. It took Grantaire a moment to get the message.

“I shall be going now,” he said with a rueful smile. “My apologies for intruding on your time with—”

“R I really want to invite you in,” Enjolras said all in a rush. His hand curled tight around the door handle. “However, that would be directly related to what we had fought about earlier, and I don’t want you getting the wrong idea again. Please—” His gaze was earnest and pleading, bright blue. “—trust that I would ask nothing of you that you aren’t willing to give.”

“You know you are under no obligation to show me in,” Grantaire replied uncertainly. Enjolras just shook his head slowly.

“If you do not wish to come in, that’s fine,” he spoke. “But I do want you to. I had wanted to show you since the first day.”

How peculiar. Was Enjolras’s mother dying, perhaps? And Enjolras had wished for Grantaire to cure her? Not that he could, but then Grantaire would feel _really_ bad for getting so indignant earlier that day. But— Why all the solemnity? Enjolras’s words implied a far heavier situation than visiting his mother every day. What exactly was happening in that house?

…Well, only one way to find out.

“I would love to go in.” Visibly, Enjolras took a steadying breath. Grantaire more subtly did the same, trying to keep a blank mind and not rudely speculate. He’ll know soon enough.

Interestingly, Enjolras’s hand left the handle and curled to a fist. With his knuckles he rapped a rhythm against the door, paused, and rapped it again. Then he went back to the handle, waving Grantaire forward to stand behind him before _slowly_ pushing the door open.

* * *

Grantaire would have never predicted what was behind that door.

The moment they stepped through, a young girl with curls as bright as the summer sun (as bright as Enjolras’s) came bounding up and threw her arms around Enjolras’s legs. Enjolras stumbled back, and Grantaire immediately reached out a hand to steady him, all the while staring at the child who now looked back up at him.

“Momma says you can have wine and some bread, it’s all ready in the kitchen.” The little girl enunciated carefully her parroted message, never once loosening her grip on Enjolras’s legs. Grantaire, clearly, could not let go of Enjolras either— he didn’t want Enjolras to fall or anything. “Momma says she’ll get the sheep stuff, and you tell what you want—” The girl’s nose wrinkled adorably when she stumbled over her words. “—no, you tell your friend what you want. She will come back later.”

“Thank you for telling me, Cosette,” Enjolras said. His tone was kind, sure, but didn’t lose any of its general solemnity even when he spoke to the child. Cosette, however, didn’t seem to mind, just smiled sweetly before finally letting Enjolras go, and stepping slowly away. When it became clear that Cosette didn’t know where to go from there (she had reached the kitchen door before swaying to the side, now was wandering down the entry hall in an ambling zigzag), Enjolras chuckled, and asked, “would you go help your mother with the sheep, please? They’re in the meadow by the patch of red poppies.”

Cosette’s eyes lit up, and didn’t say a word before bounding off, her skirt flying behind her as she disappeared into the back of the house. Together, Enjolras and Grantaire stood in silence for a moment, until Grantaire, using the grip he still had on Enjolras, turned the man around.

“Was that your sister?” 

“…No.” 

“Ah, so you,” Grantaire said, “are giving shelter to a woman and her daughter out of wedlock?”

“I—” Looking thoroughly flabbergasted, Enjolras’s hand flew up to grip Grantaire’s elbow. Grantaire decided he really liked the way the usual stern arch of Enjolras’s eyebrows rounded out into something a lot more childlike when Enjolras was surprised. “Um, yes. But why— I assumed you’d think Cosette was my child.”

“Oh no, I know she’s not yours,” Grantaire laughed dismissively. Instead of shrugging it off like Grantaire had wished he would, Enjolras narrowed his eyes in suspicion and drew closer.

“And how did you know that?”

Eyes darting around for answers, it never did occur to Grantaire to let Enjolras go. Instead, they stepped together until the back of Grantaire’s robes brushed the wall. With a nervous chuckle, he tried, “you and Cosette look nothing alike.”

“Oh really,” Enjolras said flatly, “yes, the shapes of our noses are all wrong. Try again.”

“It’s not a big deal, really,” Grantaire sighed, scratching at the back of his neck in embarrassment. “It’s just that, well, as the principle male god of _fertility_ and things of that nature, I know it when people— when _men_ , specifically— are at… a certain point in their lives.” When Enjolras remained frowning in incomprehension, Grantaire knocked his head back against the wall and groaned. “ _You know_. When they haven’t… attempted to continue their bloodline.”

Grantaire watched understanding dawn on Enjolras’s face, along with a furious red flush. 

“That is— That is _not_ important—” 

“No, no of course not,” Grantaire said hurriedly. “Like I said it’s not a big deal.”

Enjolras swallowed, and Grantaire couldn’t help but watch his throat bob up and down from their close proximity— and felt his own mouth go dry in response. Clearing his throat, Enjolras jerked back several steps, putting some breathable distance between them.

“Would you like some wine and bread and cheese?” he asked stiltedly, gesturing toward the kitchen. “Or do you even eat? Human food, I mean. Because you’re not… human.” 

Grantaire couldn’t help it— he burst out in laughter, stumbling forward and slapping his hand on Enjolras’s shoulder.

“I am so sorry,” he wheezed, “is this the most awkward conversation you have ever had in your life?”

With a little snort, Enjolras ducked his head. “This is the most awkward conversation I have ever had in my life. This whole day has been, really,” he chuckled wearily. “I am so tired.”

With a sympathetic, also apologetic hum, Grantaire pulled Enjolras in and tucked the blond against his chest. Enjolras barely resisted, only grunting slightly in mutiny when Grantaire started swaying back and forth.

“There, there,” Grantaire said, softly petting Enjolras’s hair, then daring to sift his fingers through the tresses. They were as soft as he had dreamed, smelled of frosted fir trees. “What say you we go into the kitchen, eat the human food I definitely can eat, and we make inane chatter until you feel better?”

“I’m no good at small talk,” Enjolras murmured into Grantaire’s neck. Being an all-powerful god, Grantaire kept his pulse even— but it was a close call. 

“Then we’ll dive into deep philosophical discourse. You’ll yell, I’ll sneer, we’ll throw things and prove each other wrong.”

Somehow, Enjolras’s hands had found their way to Grantaire’s robe, and his fingers were gripping lightly at the front. Looking down past the fall of Enjolras’s hair, the fan of his lashes, the length of his neck, Grantaire became quickly hypnotized by the patterns Enjolras was drawing and scratching into coarse cloth. When Enjolras stepped back, his fingers were the last to part from Grantaire, until Grantaire’s robe fluttered back down between them like autumn leaves. Enjolras looked considerably calmer now, his shoulders now free from the tension that had plagued them since they entered the house. Gesturing once more toward the kitchen, Enjolras led the way this time. 

“You did say you had a question to ask me.” To Grantaire’s surprise, there sat three dining couches in the kitchen area, right next to the cooking stoves— a curious mix of the men’s symposium and womanly cooking. He expected nothing less of Enjolras, really. Enjolras took a seat without reclining, and Grantaire followed suit.

“What do you think about death?” Grantaire asked, jumping straight in. Enjolras, in the middle of breaking apart a piece of flatbread, was startled into laughter.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think that was a threat,” he said, sliding a jar of honey across the table. “Or worse, an offer.”

“Well, you never know with you hero types,” Grantaire said with a shrug. Generously slathering his piece of bread in honey, Grantaire reminded himself to replenish the house’s store of not only honey, but also wine, vinegar and the like. It was the least he could do in return for the hospitality. Grantaire remembered, “oh, and by the way? I can eat any human food but meat. It's the case with all gods.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Enjolras murmured absently. Then, “I’m hardly a hero.”

Grantaire paused, looked around him.

“You’re right,” he agreed. “You’re no hero to _this_ culture. I mean, just look at this blatant display of unheroic traits around us. What, do you believe men and women are _equal_ , or something? I bet you even _cook_.”

“Fantine did say I make the most delicious fish she’s ever eaten,” Enjolras said, perfectly serious.

“See? Look at you,” Grantaire said fondly. “How do you even hope to compare to the amazing Heracles, who slaughtered his wife and children? The great Theseus, who lied to and abandoned Ariadne to _my_ horrid hands?”

Here, Enjolras’s smile faltered, eyes going wide like he was suddenly reminded of something— which, of course, he was. Grantaire could kick himself for introducing the subject so callously. With a deliberately blasé expression, Grantaire dipped his fingers in the plate of honey and swirled it around.

“She’s a lovey girl,” he said neutrally. “Loves too hard and trusts too much, but I’m told those are not exactly poor characteristics. She built her house by herself, you know— apparently she took notes when Daedalus was around.”

“Legends say she’s quite wonderful,” Enjolras commented blandly, staring blankly at Grantaire’s hand still in the honey. Grantaire wondered if he had noticed the dish was as full as it had been before they began eating.

“When I told her she could use my name for her protection, she almost said no,” Grantaire recalled with a fond huff. “She told me she was still waiting for a soul mate, and asked what sane man would dare challenge a god for her hand in marriage?” Enjolras’s eyes were lit again, and Grantaire pulled his finger free, lapping up the honey with a grin. “But the convenience of marriage to me outweighed the potential cost, in the end. She’s currently building herself a whole palace on Naxos, brick by brick. Imagine that, a woman architect.”

“How lucky you are to be married to her,” Enjolras teased.

The talk of architecture drew Grantaire’s eyes to the building around them. The inside was no more spectacular than the outside, if a bit warmer in both hue and feeling— all clay and dark polished wood. 

“Are the stories true?” Grantaire found himself asking. How funny, that a god should be asking a mortal for confirmation of mythology. “Did you build this place by yourself?”

“…I did.” There was no pride in Enjolras’s tone, only a strange, questioning intonation, as if he weren’t yet sure of the consequences for his action. “My father was an architect. Wanted desperately for me to be one too, but I can’t say I ever found the passion. After my father passed and my mother became sick, I thought, in memory of him, I could build a house from one of his old schematics. It would give my mother some peace of heart as well. But before construction was even completed, my mother passed away as well.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Enjolras merely tilted his head.

“They were good to me,” he said carefully, “but not necessarily good to others. Take my mother’s nurse, for example— mother treated the poor woman horribly, simply because Musichetta was from the east. Never mind Musichetta’s medicines gave her strength to walk again.”

A familiar intensity was creeping back into Enjolras’s voice. Grantaire was beginning to recognize it as frustration at injustices and passion for change. Enjolras spoke as if everything he said were as clear-cut as _the sky is blue_ ; the man so simply called out his mother’s ungratefulness, at the same time maintaining an assured piety toward her. He had such stability of mind— forget amongst men, Grantaire knew a great number of gods far more irrational than Enjolras, himself included.

Enjolras’s fingers were tracing the threads of the cushioning cloth on his couch, looking down with a reminiscent smile.

“Musichetta was actually the first person to live here,” he said. “After my mother passed, Musichetta confessed that while she was a nurse, she was not from Asclepius’s temple, as we had been led to believe. Rather, she had been the sister of a great doctor, who had fallen on misfortune. Her brother had wanted to marry her off to some warrior with twelve other concubines, so she fled to Kos. There she passed herself off as a healing maid.”

“Why did she confess all this to you?” Grantaire asked, wondering if this Musichetta had seen in Enjolras the same light he had. It wouldn’t be absurd. But Enjolras just laughed.

“She was going to rob me, actually— but I managed to overpower her when she was a bit weighed down with gold and silver.” Grantaire’s surprise was not at Musichetta’s actions, but rather the bit where Enjolras overpowered someone. Sure, the mortal wasn’t weak-bodied, considering he walked a mountain every day— but Enjolras in hand-to-hand combat? Surely the fight was a close one.

Grantaire’s skepticism didn’t go unnoticed, and Enjolras’s hand reached out, fast as a whip to crack against Grantaire’s arm. 

“Hey,” he protested weakly. Enjolras fixed him with a narrow-eyed glare.

“I built a house, alright? Don’t think me weak.” 

Sliding out open palms in apology, Grantaire did his best to smile guilelessly. “I’m sorry. Tell me more about this Musichetta. Where is she now?”

“Even though I would bring her supplies strapped to the underside of the sheep, Musichetta would often go hunting— she was quite good with the bow. One day, according to her, a king stumbled between her and her prey and ended up with an arrow in his foot.” Most stories involving wronged kings ended poorly, but considering Enjolras was absentmindedly piling breadcrumbs to one side of his plate, Grantaire had a feeling this one will go well for Musichetta. And sure enough— “The king— Bossuet was his name, King of Corona— he corroborated Musichetta’s claim, then asked for her hand in marriage.”

“He proposed after she shot his foot?” What an interesting-sounding fellow. Grantaire reminded himself to find a day to visit. Throw a party, perhaps— Bossuet sounded like the type of man to just let a god waltz in and throw a party.

“She said no at first of course, like a _proper lady_ ,” Enjolras said, faux-serious. “In fact, before she left, Musichetta told me she had only planned to stay in Corona a while under the king’s hospitality, then deny his proposal and return. Live the life of luxury, you know? But when she finally did return, it was several months later on her honeymoon. I had already asked Fantine and Cosette to move in by that point.”

“And what is their story?” 

“Fantine was a maid at a lord’s house the city over, and the lord is the father of Cosette,” Enjolras explained, a light frown on his lips. “The lady of the house kicked Fantine out. They winded up in our town, asked me for some food and water to help them travel to Corinth.”

“I asked Enjolras only because I had initially mistaken him for a woman,” came an unfamiliar voice from the hall. A tall, solemn-looking woman strolled in, and Grantaire immediately rose to his feet. She was unveiled, tendrils of her hair escaping from the clasp at her neck, and her hands and skirt were stained with dirt. A moment later, Cosette’s blonde head peered out from behind her.

“You must be the lady Fantine,” Grantaire said with a smile and a grand bow. Cosette giggled loudly at his theatrics, but Fantine only nodded, expression still placid, neither unkind nor particularly revealing of her intentions. Enjolras had risen as well, posture suddenly stiff. He pulled out a piece of linen, damped it in a bucket of water, and held it out to Fantine. When Fantine took the cloth, their hands touched— a test that Fantine made no attempt to hide, as she stared expectantly at Grantaire. Grantaire’s expression never faltered. “Please, rest assured. Enjolras had already explained the _particular customs_ of this house.”

Taking that as her cue, Cosette dove forward and grabbed two handfuls of Grantaire’s robes. She gasped, delighted.

“It’s so soft,” she cooed, rubbing the cloth between her fingers. Grantaire sat back down so she didn’t tower over the child, keeping his legs extended so she could keep her hold. “Is this magic? Don’t gods wear magic clothes? Aphrodite does. She’s the goddess of love.” Cosette gasped again. “Do you know her? Are you in love with her?”

Chuckling, Grantaire patted Cosette on the head, raining down a shower of flower petals into her hair. With a happy yet ear-splitting screech, Cosette ran back to her mom, then all the way out, presumably to find something to see her reflection in. When Grantaire looked back at Fantine, he was met with a pleased look, and Enjolras looked distinctly less anxious.

“Has Enjolras also told you what we need?” Fantine asked, and Enjolras’s brows were furrowed again.

“No, I— Wait.” Gaze darting between Grantaire and Fantine, Enjolras sighed in frustration. “Look, R, if you aren’t in a position to help, it’s genuinely fine, alright? We wouldn’t be hopeless without you.”

“You are not willing to help?” Fantine asked sharply. All of a sudden wanting to have sprinted from the room with Cosette, Grantaire first held out his hands to placate.

“Tell me first what you would ask of me,” he said cautiously. “Then I will decide whether or not I can help.”

He still had to be careful, though from the looks of the situation, the favor would be primarily for Fantine and Cosette, and… sure. Grantaire was fine with being patron to two women; it’d hardly be anything new. Of course this would be the sort of favor Enjolras asked for. In hindsight, assuming the worst about Enjolras and getting angry was irrational and entirely awful. He ought to apologize.

Fantine pulled Enjolras aside and began talking in hushed whispers, which Grantaire politely tuned out. If it weren’t for the way Enjolras kept glancing back at him, Grantaire would probably cut the conversation short and be out the door already. To pass the time, he found a small spread of cliff rose roots in a patch of bare earth outside the window, and began to grow it. By the time Enjolras and Fantine turned back around, the bush stood a head taller than Cosette and was filled with little yellow and white blossoms.

Visibly startled, Enjolras made his way to the window and bent halfway out, fingers outstretched to caress the petals.

“Did you just do this?” His smile was brighter than the blooms. “This is amazing!” 

Grantaire, for his part, ducked his head and waved the compliment modestly away (and if the wave of his hand brought a bough of the fragrant roses into Enjolras’s arms, it was purely a coincidence). Behind them, Fantine cleared her throat, and Grantaire got to watch Enjolras spin around and duck his head like a chastised child. He was still cradling the flowers, though.

“Whatever my lot is in life, I have long since grown to accept it,” Fantine began. “But I will not settle for anything but the best for my daughter. This shelter of Enjolras’s is a haven, yes, but only temporarily so. _Do not_ —” she talked sternly over Enjolras when Enjolras tried to protest, “—say you will not end up offering sanctuary to many others. I know you, young man. And besides, this shelter operates best as an intermediary. Musichetta thought so too. I want a _future_ for Cosette, no matter how much she may want to remain nameless and frolicking in the mountains.”

“Would you like to take my name for Cosette?” Grantaire offered tentatively. “She will have to be taken to Naxos, however, and—”

“Oh, no,” Fantine said with a demure shake of her head. “I have something far simpler in mind. More local as well, if you are willing to hear me out.”

Grantaire glanced over at Enjolras, looking for a cue. But Enjolras would only stare back at Grantaire with his most passionate face, clearly trying to communicate how earnest his intentions were (which, of course, Grantaire did not doubt). With a sigh and a little laugh, Grantaire resigned himself to whatever scheme the mortals had cooked up, with far more ease than he had honestly expected.

* * *

Really, it turned out not to be much of a scheme at all. They truly only needed one small favor, which Grantaire was glad to grant.

Valjean was a good man Grantaire met at a symposium. Grantaire had gone in a scruffy disguise and old, worn robes, and Valjean had been the only one to not treat him with distain. The man had shared his stories of poverty, of being a public slave for long years until he finally made enough money to purchase his freedom. Such a background was nothing to be proud of, yet Valjean spoke candidly— in a fashion not unlike Enjolras’s, actually. Perhaps Grantaire was attracted to a certain type of people.

As a result, Grantaire-as-Dionysus greatly favored Valjean— spoke to all the right people and told all the right prophecies, until Valjean was appointed Hierophant at the Temple of Bacchus at Athens. Valjean served piously, and would often find himself hosting and drinking with anonymous men who would appear in the middle of the night, smelling of wine.

Tonight was one of those evenings. Valjean woke to several knocks at his chamber door, put on his robes and greeted the stranger. Grantaire— this time with a long face, wide mouth, and small eyes, long blond hair pouring down his back— held out a jar of wine in salutation.

Over drinks, Grantaire told Valjean what was to happen. The temple was busy preparing for the Greater Dionysia, and in the cover of the festivities, three women will appear. The temple was to show them the best _xenia_ , then offer them places as initiates to the Mysteries as well as positions as priestesses. Prior to their initiation, they would serve anonymously as temple maids. Two of them would then take the offer, and one would refuse and take her leave.

Long since used to the whimsicalities of his god, Valjean agreed readily, concerned only with logistics and finding time to tell everyone in the temple about their new friends. He did, however, ask why one would refuse such a generous offer from Dionysus.

Grantaire took his time answering that one, refusing on principle to resort to the old excuse of _For the Fates wish it so_. Instead, he said, “she has sworn herself to maidenhood, see, and wishes more to be in the service of my wife. She will merely accompany her cousins to your temple, then head north for Naxos.”

That was, of course, a lie. But strangely a more truth-like explanation than _She is actually a he who has been helping out a displaced mother and her daughter, asking nothing in return._ This was exactly the reason Grantaire had long since forsaken notions of justice and integrity on this earth— though it was still interesting to occasionally stumble across an errant idealist.

(And how prepared was Grantaire to face the fact that he has effectively surrounded himself with these idealists? Bahorel, Feuilly, Valjean, Enjolras… These gods and people who were so important to him— how great they were, how tiresome Grantaire must be to them. He might as well be the god of dreary rain days, the lukewarm sticky deluge that falls during a worshippers’ parade.)

(Of course, to take the analogy further, the Dionysia parades have always thrived in all sorts of weather— Grantaire wasn’t the type to let mud and rain ruin someone else’s fun. But Grantaire also wasn’t in the business of salvaging his sense of self-worth, so that would be completely irrelevant.)

Faithfully leaving the matter of Fantine and Cosette to Valjean’s care, Grantaire went forward and prepared himself for the celebration. As a god, to be worshipped is like indulging in drink; when the smoke of burnt bones and the scent of honey wine reached their recipient, it came with a flood of emotions and power. To speak the name _Dionysus_ is a sort of prostration, and Grantaire dared anyone to have thousands of pious men and women chanting their name and not feel _some_ rush of headiness. Grantaire’s never been one for upholding himself, having only ever done divine acts to take honor for Bacchus’s name, but even he must admit to a modicum of pride at the Dionysia.

There was a catch, however. The nature of Bacchanalian worship meant Grantaire needed to be constantly present as a god— the experience of the worshippers were _enthousiasmos_ and _ekstasis_ , Dionysus was the god who flooded the senses, removed all sense of self and united the teeming mass into one mind. It took a lot of power and concentration, meaning Grantaire would not be able to manifest in human form, meaning he would not be able to see to Enjolras when the mortal showed. As bright as he was, Enjolras’s presence would still be mostly smothered by the sheer amount of populace at the festival. Seeing him would have to wait until after the celebrations were done.

Grantaire threw himself into his godly duties. The sacrifices began at sunrise, and the skies were covered with a fine sheen of pale smoke. The women left the houses and put their hair down, the men cooked and distributed great slabs of goat, sheep, and cattle meat— everybody was feasting and drinking before the day’s even begun. Grantaire wove the scent of wine into the fog and had it roll over the land, brought great fertility to the earth when the sunbeams burned through the clouds.

The parade started midday. Men pulled on goat ears and tied on tails, prancing and leering in their satyr costumes. Grantaire took care to keep them all on the uncoordinated side of drunk, so their unsavory grips of women were easy to break and they were easily knocked to the ground. The women were preparing to march out of the city, their hearts possessed by the godly presence and their hands fortified with strength. Grantaire blessed their feet with swiftness and their eyes with sharpness— these were their three days of freedom from propriety, from concealment, and Grantaire wanted to make it count.

When the theater began, Grantaire remembered fondly the time Jehan had tried to enter, only to be prevented by Zeus himself. _Gods cannot compete in human games,_ he said, _especially when you have the wrath of Hades behind you._  

Jehan had proceeded to explain they did not need Hades’s help to be a threat, which did them no favors in terms of the argument. That night, Grantaire had to personally participate in Jehan’s play, and reassure them at that given the opportunity, their play would definitely have taken first place.

With nightfall came a brief respite for Grantaire, though he was so flooded with energy at this point that he could scarcely sit down. Coming into human form meant a more spectacular body than before— something golden and heroic that attracted many appreciative glances. Wildflowers blossomed where Grantaire stepped. His first stop was Valjean, who, with one look at Grantaire, just nodded in affirmation of a task accomplished. Ah, so Fantine and Cosette were settled, and Enjolras was… somewhere.

Upon a moment of thought, Grantaire immediately figured out where Enjolras would be. Worship was done for the day, and nobody would be at the Temple. Sure enough, Grantaire found Enjolras there, sitting at the foot of the Dionysus cult statue, amidst garlands and cups of fine wine. Momentarily concealed, Grantaire found himself in breathless awe at the sight of the man. Clothed in a woman’s dress meant to flatter the female form, Enjolras cut a delicate figure, with long limbs and a taper to his waist. Black kohl rimmed his eyes, and long lashes cast a demure shadow along the upward curve of his lids. His lips were stained the dark red of wine, and struck a sensual contrast to the slender stretch of his neck. Someone, probably Cosette, had woven flowers into his hair— tender little wild roses, perhaps from the very bough Grantaire had picked for him.

When Enjolras caught sight of Grantaire, a slow smile spread across his face, and he rose to his feet. “Quite a party you just threw,” he called with a teasing smile. Grantaire approached slowly, as many worshippers had, previously that day, approached Dionysus bearing gifts.

“You did not want to dress up as a satyr?” Grantaire laughed. 

“The ears I could handle, but the tail was the deal breaker.” Grantaire had a feeling Enjolras was more serious in his claim than his joking tone indicated. Rather unconsciously, he reached out and brushed his fingers into Enjolras’s hair, gentling tugging a strand straight, then letting go to watch it bounce right back into place.

“Thank you, R,” Enjolras said softly. When he tilted his head to the side, there was a fall of petals from his hair. But the flowers, enchanted as they were, remained wholly petaled. “You truly did a great thing for Cosette today. As a priestess of the temple, she would receive an education, would be able to meet people. I do not know how to repay you.”

All the magic and energy pressing at Grantaire’s temples wanted him to say, _I have an idea_ , and draw Enjolras close. Kiss the back of his hand and touch the crest of his cheek. All the while never looking away from Enjolras’s bright, bright eyes, too passionate and earnest to look sultry, even in make up. _Why resist?_ he asked himself. Such was the moment between them that Grantaire was utterly certain that if he were to lean forward right now, Enjolras would meet him halfway. The intoxicating scent of wine perfumed the air, thick as honey, and Enjolras’s pupils were blown wide, and he bit his lip, and he swallowed, throat bobbing, and—

Grantaire tore himself backward, and the air made a sound like ripping between them. Oh gods, what had he been about to do? Magic dancing all around, Grantaire himself barely in charge of his faculties (or perhaps _too_ in charge, everything he was divinely capable of sparking at the tips of his fingers), had he _compelled_ Enjolras to feel as he did? There was a sour taste at the back of his throat, and he quickly turned away, pulling out of Enjolras’s reach.

“R—? What—”

“Fantine and Cosette settling in well is all the repayment I need,” Grantaire hurriedly covered, pacing in a wide circle to divert some of his energy. The stone beneath his feet cracked and crumbled for plants to spring up in their wake. Enjolras’s brow furrowed at the sight, but made no comment. “So you enjoyed the festivities?”

“Yes, and—” Enjolras had his passionate face back on again, eyes flashing and hands dancing. “—I was thinking, today, so many of your worshippers are peasant women. They love what you represent for them, and they so enthusiastically take up the opportunity to be free from their everyday grind. What if you set something up where there are shifting positions of service at your temple for these women? So they have more time than three days every two years to do what they want. It would be—”

“No, Enjolras that can’t happen,” Grantaire interrupted. He watched with weary eyes as Enjolras’s mouth snapped shut, expression darkening with displeasure. “I told you before— there is an unbridgeable divide between gods and mortals. The moment I involve myself in the mess of the mortals is the moment I stop being a god.”

“The divide is unbridgeable only if no one is willing to bridge it,” Enjolras argued, hands fisted at his sides and taking a step forward. “And closely associating yourself with _us mortals_ , if anything, makes you more clearly a god in comparison. Look— you host this festival for a reason, you celebrate the way you do for a reason. You cannot tell me that you don’t think those women need a way to get out of the confines of the home—!” 

“Of course I know they do!” Thickets of bramble had started growing along the ground, but neither of them noticed, so fixedly glaring at each other as they were. “But I know how your little fantasy plays out— you think, just because the housewives take to the mountains for three days that they have got enough rage to overthrow this whole damn system you hate so much. Well I have news for you, Enjolras— what you saw out there? It’s this fun little phenomenon called _drunk people_. _I_ did that.” The words spat like poison on his tongue, but Grantaire could hardly stop now. An ugly blackness was welling in his chest, and he wanted to _break_ things. “You think everyone will come running at your call to arms, but let me divine for you right now a prophecy— _no one will come_. No one’s angry with the rulers like you want them to be, they’re all too busy killing each other for the crumbs at the table. Today’s celebrations look the way they did because of _me_. I help them manifest this anger, so they would burn out and return to placidity in three days. It’s the way it has always happened, it’s the way it will _always_ be.”

Enjolras had never been so livid, and his rage scorched the air around him.

“I don’t know if, as a god, you are aware of this, but us mere mortals? We have minds of our own,” Enjolras spat. “The frenzy out there was as much them as you— don’t think to take so much credit, _Dionysus_.”

With the evocation of the name, something snapped, broken like felled trees and crashing to the ground. Grantaire’s head felt as if it were going to split.

“You warned me not to think you weak, I urge you do the same,” he growled lowly, dangerously. “ _Don’t_ , under any circumstances, think you can tame the gods.” Eyes flashing gold, then a terrible, dreadful black, Grantaire bared his teeth. “I am _wild_.” 

And Grantaire did reach out then, hand coming up to cup Enjolras’s face. The touch was gentle, but Enjolras still inhaled sharply as if in pain— for there was an incredible burning making its way down and through his body, collecting at his chest and hips, making his fingers clench and toes curl. He stumbled back, trying to escape the sensation, but Grantaire followed close, other hand curling against Enjolras’s waist and holding him in some semblance of a lover’s embrace. Grantaire’s magic was spilling out, and he was pouring into Enjolras the headiest, _neediest_ intoxication he knew. In his hands, Enjolras was shaking apart, hands fluttering at Grantaire’s chest, scratching at and scoring the skin, as if he didn’t know whether to push Grantaire away or pull him closer. Grantaire made the decision for him, wrapping his hand warmly around Enjolras’s neck and bringing their foreheads together. Enjolras swayed forward, and their legs and breaths tangled together in trembling intimacy. 

“ _This_ ,” Grantaire hissed, “is what I’m capable of.” He gave Enjolras a little shake, and a choked groan escaped Enjolras’s throat. “You should be terrified.”

Eyes squeezed tightly shut, Enjolras breathed a ragged, “ _yes_.” And—

Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck fuckfuck _fuck_ —

A burst of white light from Grantaire’s palm, and Enjolras’s eyes rolled back in his head. Grantaire let the now-unconscious man fall back into a soft tangle of vines, then disappeared.

* * *

There were only blurs of color all the way to Bahorel’s, along with a high-pitched droning hum in his ears that would not disappear. Grantaire didn’t care. He barely breathed, each twisting pull of air a self-flagellation. He was going to be sick.

When Bahorel opened the door, Grantaire shoved his way inside and immediately started toward the caves. Distantly, he heard himself asking where the chair was. The chair that had the power to bind gods, to contain them and keep them locked up forever. Bahorel was trying to grab him, but Grantaire easily kept away, taking advantage of Bahorel’s lameness and never stopping in his quick strides until they came to the room with the chair. Turning suddenly, Grantaire shoved Bahorel back out of the room, then propelled the chair forward to lodge in the threshold.

“You’ve figured it out, right?” Grantaire was saying, his own voice foreign to him, numb as he were. “How it keeps gods trapped. Cover this room with it. Lock me in here so no one can let me out.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, R?” Bahorel bellowed, pushing himself upright against the wall. He moved to pull the chair aside, but Grantaire quickly wrapped it in razor-sharp thorns and thistles. With a hiss of displeasure, Bahorel drew his hand back. “I’m not going to lock you up in a room, don’t be a fool.”

“If you don’t seal this room right now, I will tear this whole mountain to the ground.”

“Grantaire, whatever is wrong, we can fix it—”

Grantaire reached his arm up, closed his fist around every remnant of a seed or root in the earth and _pulled_. The entire mountain shook around them, the rocks cracking and falling. Eyes widening, Bahorel swore.

“You really—” With another curse, Bahorel began shifting the chair, spreading the gold across the entrance of the cave. “ _Fine_ , but you’re a fucking idiot. And this is going to open for _someone_ , that’s just the way it works.”

“Not you,” Grantaire said, hand still stretched out in threat. “Make it someone else.” A flash of bitter, bitter inspiration. “Apollo. He must hate me now, won’t even show his face to me. Make it him, he’ll never care enough to open this. Better leave me to rot, for all our sakes.”

“Grantaire—” In his frustration was also a note of pleading, and Bahorel’s work was slowing. Grantaire prepared himself to shake the mountain again. “—there must be some other way. Come on, just _tell_ me what’s wrong.”

“Finish the seal,” was all Grantaire said. He kept a watchful eye until the chair was just a sheet of gold covering the entrance, until Bahorel’s hopeless expression disappeared on the other side. Then, Grantaire fell to his knees, and let his filthy, tainted magic spill forth.

* * *

Enjolras woke up to sunlight. He was lying in a comfortable spread of linens, on a cot by a window. Fresh air was wafting in, bringing with it the scent of mint and citrus. A small man with dark hair appeared, hovering over him, and looked visibly relieved when Enjolras blinked at him.

“Feuilly!” the man called over his shoulder. “He’s awake!”

Enjolras tried to turn his head to look, but a searing pain tore through his skull, leaving him quite dizzy. The man grimaced at his moan.

“Let me get you some water,” he said sympathetically, laying a hand on Enjolras’s forehead. Curiously, where he touched, a pleasant coolness spread, and Enjolras sighed in relief when the pain momentarily subsided. 

“Enjolras?” came an unfamiliar voice. This time, Enjolras was more careful in looking, and the newcomer was— wow— the glow of magic emanated from their entire being, and Enjolras was all of a sudden quite self-conscious about his own prone form on the bed.

“Please, don’t move,” they said softly. “Call me Feuilly, though you may also know me as Hecate. This—” The dark-haired one had returned with a cup of water, which Enjolras gladly sipped from. “—is Joly.”

“More commonly known as Asclepius,” he said cheerfully. It took Enjolras a moment, but when he realized he sat before two gods, he forgot to swallow, and sputtered embarrassingly around the water. Shushing Enjolras, Joly helped to settle him more fully against the wall behind him. Feuilly remained standing at the foot of the bed, looking solemn.

“You’re here because of what R did,” they said bluntly, but not without a hint of sadness. “How much do you remember?”

 _Too much_ , Enjolras wanted to answer. The memory was frighteningly clear in Enjolras’s mind: the fire, the arousal, R’s dark and angry glare— then his look of abject horror, right before Enjolras passed out. Which—?

“R doesn’t really have the offensive power to knock people out,” Joly explained, sheepishly twirling his fingers. “So he basically got you blackout drunk, and now you are very, _very_ hung-over.”

Enjolras snorted. That sounded in character. At this reaction, Feuilly and Joly exchanged perhaps hopeful glances.

“We would understand if you wanted to wash your hands clean of R altogether,” Feuilly said calmly, though the look in their eyes said that while they _would_ understand, they would also preferred if that were not the case. Which was fine, because Enjolras had no intention to do so anyways.

“There were poor decisions on both our parts,” Enjolras carefully mitigated, deciding for now to not elaborate on the details. Those were between he and R anyways. “I would like to at least talk to him again.”

“That’s good news!” Joly cheered, but immediately faltered. “But also, awkward— long story short, R’s locked himself up in a cave that only Apollo can open.”

“What?” Enjolras asked, not sure whether to feel more baffled or worried or angry. “Why?”

Feuilly exhaled a sharp, tiresome breath, and Joly shrugged helplessly. “Penance? Whenever he messes up, he always goes overboard with the punishment.”

“He can’t just apologized?” Enjolras snapped, scowling. Joly looked meditative.

“You know, in all the time I’ve known him, I don’t think he’s ever just said sorry, first and foremost,” he said seriously. With a groan, Enjolras’s head fell forward into his hands. 

“Can’t he just quit it?” he grumbled. 

“The deed is done.”

“Fine, then let’s just get Apollo to open it up.” Get R out of solitary confinement so Enjolras can give him a piece of his mind. Over his head, Feuilly and Joly were trading looks again, and Enjolras briefly wondered if, as the god of magic, Feuilly would communicate with thoughts alone. Enjolras caught himself thinking hard _at_ Feuilly, and decided to blame Dionysus’s wine-attack for a moment of weakness. “Where do we find Apollo?”

“Funny story,” Joly said with a weak grin. “There’s someone who wants to see you.”

And who but the Farshooter himself should walk in at that very moment.

* * *

Enjolras has never seen a more perfectly constructed man in his entire life. It was almost eerie, the marble-smoothness of Apollo’s musculature, the sun-dazzling gold of his hair. The god glowed with all sorts of amazing auras; Enjolras’s heart was having a hard time deciding between racing in the thrill of proximity and just stopping altogether. R was completely and utterly _wrong_ to even compare Enjolras to Apollo— no wonder Artemis was so upset.

“Don’t worry,” Joly whispered to Enjolras, trying to be reassuring. “I don’t know what you’ve heard from R, but Apollo’s actually a nice guy.”

Enjolras turned to Joly, a funny expression on his face. “Isn’t he your father?” he whispered, despite it being quite obvious that every being in the room could hear him. Joly made a noncommittal sort of gesture.

“Yes, he is the father of Asclepius, who I technically am, _but_ —” He looked at Feuilly for permission, which Feuilly gave with a nod of their head. “—there’s also a system of replacement? So I am Joly, who has taken on the _title_ of Asclepius. I used to be a human, you know.”

“I—” Enjolras blinked in astonishment. He _hadn’t_ known. The gods had been replaced by humans? All of them or some of them? What were the implications, then, of that divide R kept insisting on between mortals and immortals? Did R know? Was R one of them? A thousand questions raced through his head, but Enjolras didn’t get the chance to ask any, for Apollo stepped forward and immediately commanded the room.

“You think I am here because of Dionysus,” he began, voice sonorous and echoic like R’s had been when R was more god than human. Enjolras swallowed around a dry throat. “But in truth, I think he is a fool and do not care much for what becomes of him. Gods disappear all the time— Demeter, Ares— and we wreak havoc on the human world until people start praying and begging. Then, one day or another, a hero will show up and ask me to free him, and I will send him on a task, he may or may not succeed— there is truly nothing special about these circumstances, and I hardly care.” 

Feuilly, behind him, looked exasperated and cleared their throat pointedly. Apollo’s arch expression immediately fell away to something more self-conscious. A quiver of molten gold arrows sat at his back, with one exception— a single arrow seemed to be made of glass. It was for this arrow that Apollo’s fingers reached.

“…All that is what I would normally say. But I’ve recently had a change of heart.” He brought the arrow before Enjolras, the glass gliding smooth across his skin. “Are you familiar with this arrow, Son of Astris?”

No, but Enjolras hazarded a guess. “Is this an arrow R— or rather, Dionysus— took for Artemis?”

“For _your_ sake,” Apollo reminded, an eyebrow arched. Enjolras wanted to protest that that was only marginally true, and really, R brought that upon himself, it was only fair he took care of it. But a look of warning from Feuilly over Apollo’s shoulder had Enjolras biting back his words. Apollo, at any rate, had completely moved along. “Do you know this arrow’s purpose?”

“Not at all,” replied Enjolras truthfully.

And, quick as light, Apollo brought the arrow stabbing forward between Enjolras’s eyes— Enjolras didn’t even have time to flinch. He could only sit there, paralyzed with fear with an arrow sticking out of his head—

But he wasn’t dead? In fact, all the pain was washing away from his head and body in a sensation quite like when Joly had touched him earlier, but more wholesome and final. Enjolras felt as if he had been emptied and scoured clean, then refilled with ichor; his hands could break rock, his feet could climb mountains.

“This is an arrow of healing,” Apollo explained with a smug little smirk. He removed the arrow, and it didn’t even come away with blood. “I commissioned it of Hephaestus so I may do my duties as the God of Healing faster. I did not think my twin would take an interest in its abilities.”

“Why did she?” Enjolras asked carefully. Here, Apollo’s expression grew troubled— no, not quite. More _remorseful_ than troubled. 

“My sister used to love a man,” he told, sliding the arrow back into his quiver. “A great hunter. In the arrogance of my youth, and, I suppose, the protective feelings I had for Artemis, I could not comprehend the reason for her adoration. While she is the elder of us two, she has never been particularly mature— but in speaking of this man, in _loving_ him, she seemed solemn, and wise, and all-comprehending. I, who at that point understood nothing but lust, didn’t like that. At all.”

Heaving a great, tragic sigh, Apollo continued. “I tricked her into slaying the man with her own arrows, supposing that if she were the one to do it, she could not lay the blame on me, and she would forget her love sooner.” Pausing, he swallowed and arched his head toward the ceiling, growing so still for a moment he looked a statue. “I will never forget the look on her face when she discovered my trickery.”

Enjolras did not dare interrupt Apollo’s silent anguish, only sat watching a single tear trek its way down the god’s cheek and onto the bed. Where the teardrop touched, there was a ripple of soft light, and the entire bed grew comfortably warm in the light afternoon chill. After some time, Feuilly stepped forward with a gentle hand on Apollo’s shoulder. The touch set Apollo in motion again, his emotions more contained. Enjolras suddenly recalled the great Delphic philosophy— _All things in moderation._

“After Dionysus stole the arrows for her, she came to me. Now, I understand love, and bear great emotions for Hymenaios, a prince of Thessaly. She came to me at sunset, and we perched on a mountaintop overlooking Hymenaios’s palace, the forest where he was hunting. There, Artemis said to me, _Watch_ , as she loosed a volley of arrows into the forest. I raced to Hymenaios’s side, only to find his chest pierced with an arrow of healing, and a boar’s gouge wound healing at his side. There was so much blood on the forest floor, had she been any later, Hymenaios would have perished. I had been so preoccupied with figuring out Artemis’s intention that I did not see he was hurt.

“…All this is to say,” Apollo sighed again. Enjolras watched on with awe and a little worry as the glowing glamor around Apollo shifted and faded; what was previously gold became the clean color of fresh clay dug from the soil. The transitional beauty of Apollo’s youth was morphing into something more solid, more consistent, and age came upon him like a fall of rain. “I am older now, and, I dare say, wiser. These sins of my youth, however, are inescapable parts of my character, as long as I remain a god. Here, I listen to Hecate, and wonder, if Hephaestus and Dionysus have left— if Asclepius, my own son has left— perhaps leaving godhood is not such a terrible option.”

Apollo looked up and fixed Enjolras with a meaningful look. The gravity of the matter was beginning to weigh on Enjolras, and he knew and dreaded Apollo’s words before they even came out of his mouth.

“So I offer my godhood to you, Enjolras, Son of Astris. After all, Dionysus has so graciously offered you as a candidate. Will you say yes?”

Enjolras was thoroughly unconvinced that this whole situation was not a dream. Waking up to a roomful of gods, then being asked to join their ranks? Or rather, replace one of them? How would that even work? What would it mean for Enjolras’s beliefs, ethically-speaking? Was this even _allowed_?

At Enjolras’s wide-eyed silence, Feuilly cleared their throat again.

“Now that you’ve made your offer, I believe Enjolras needs some time to think it over,” they spoke to Apollo. “I will keep his company and answer any questions— you may stay if you’d like.” 

Which was obviously a coded _You’ve done your part, you can leave now_. Feuilly, for a non-Olympian, sure commanded an impressive amount of power from the gods, if R’s story about Feuilly and Artemis was true. Enjolras was quite impressed when Apollo nodded, and turned to leave.

“If you agree, you will have to accomplish a task, of course,” he said in parting. “In Tartarus resides a man named Tantalus, who bears heinous crimes to his name. You are to fetch me an apple from the tree above his head and a jar of the water by his feet. That is all.”

With those words, Apollo made it seem like Enjolras was the one being dismissed. The god disappeared in a brief, blinding flash, and the spot where he stood was empty like he had never been. Enjolras was certainly quite dubious about the whole thing. Still trying to wrap his head around all the things he had just learned, he heard, distantly, Joly whispering, “I think he’s broken.”

“Well you’re the healer god, fix him,” Feuilly murmured in return. With a nervous little giggle, Joly hesitantly turned Enjolras to face him.

“Hey,” he said, “how are you feeling?”

“Light-headed,” Enjolras answered decidedly. “I’ve never been one for fainting under stressful circumstances, but I do believe being unconscious will help me right now.”

“As your healer, I second that motion,” Joly said solemnly. His cool, pleasant hand found its way back to Enjolras’s forehead, and his eyes were a clear, lovely brown. “ _Sleep_ ,” he commanded, and the whole world folded in softly like the finest of linens, fading to white before Enjolras’s eyes.

* * *

Three days later, Enjolras walked easily again, and he had his answer. He’d do it, of course— fetch the apple and the water, take the place of Apollo, and free R. While Enjolras was still in no way certain about wanting godhood, Apollo had made it abundantly clear that he would not be the one to free R— at least, not willingly. The god of prophecy even hinted that there would be a catastrophe as great as the Trojan War before _this_ Apollo freed Dionysus from self-imposed imprisonment. So really, Enjolras had little choice in the matter. After returning from visiting the forge of Hephaestus (no, the situation hasn’t changed; the cave remained sealed and silent), Feuilly was quick to assure him that yes, Enjolras would be able to open the seal once he becomes Apollo. He and Feuilly were to leave for the Underworld on a crisp winter morning, and Joly saw them off with a satchel of nourishing drinks and herbs and such for Enjolras. 

“I heard you know Musichetta,” Joly said before parting, clasping Enjolras by the shoulders. He was a good deal shorter than Enjolras, but had a way of commanding attention. “And Bossuet. They like you, and more importantly they trust you. R’s my good friend, and he likes you too. With so many good folks liking you, you must be truly wonderful and amazing. I know you won’t let them down.”

“Why does that sound like a covert threat?” Enjolras asked weakly. Joly only winked in response and patted him on the shoulder.

“Are you ready to go?” Feuilly said softly behind them. In the little time he knew Feuilly (which could not have amounted to more than a single day, honestly), Enjolras had managed to grow immensely fond of this god of crossroads— Feuilly moved about quietly yet confidently, commanding respect without the flaunt and flourish other gods (namely, Apollo) seemed to rely on. Enjolras nodded, and took their proffered hand. With a wave to Joly, Feuilly made some complicated hand gestures, and the world seemed to melt down around them. Dirt crumbled and rocks liquefied— the scene was all quite grotesquely nauseating, until Enjolras suddenly found himself standing at a crossroad. There was only tunnel and dirt above them, no sky; they were in the Underworld.

“Dread Persephone— that’s Jehan, by the way— quite favors me,” Feuilly confessed with a wink, “so they gave me the proverbial key to the backdoor. We are meeting Jehan at the pool of Tantalus; it is a little ways ahead. Stay behind me and try not to get lost.”

With that, they set off, Feuilly in front to guide Enjolras properly through the winding roads. Enjolras followed obediently for all of a few moments, quickly trotting up to catch Feuilly’s attention.

“May I ask you something?” he said. “Several things, actually.”

“I had a feeling you would want to,” Feuilly replied with an amused smile. “Please do, though I cannot guarantee I will have entirely satisfying answers.”

Alright. Feuilly’s permission obtained, Enjolras launched into his carefully prepared sequence of questions.

“How long have gods been allowing humans to take their place?”

Feuilly nodded absently to themselves, as if quietly approving Enjolras’s choice for a first question (which, Enjolras would readily admit, sent a thrill of satisfaction singing through his veins). “The Lady Hestia first came up with the concept,” he told, “though Dionysus was the first to put it into practice as you see it now. The home hearth has always symbolized for Hestia a democratic power distribution, I suppose, and she would often grant ladies of houses her title for a night or two, sharing her power with the women to better strengthen the mutual respect in a household. Dionysus, after the priestess Cybele cured his madness from Hera, was the first to give his powers and title entirely over to a mortal.”

“Thus R became a god,” Enjolras murmured. “Alright— are there rules a god must follow?”

“A god cannot eat meat,” Feuilly answered immediately. “I don’t know if you are familiar with the story of Prometheus and the sacrifice to Zeus?” At Enjolras’s soft shake of his head, they launched into the tale. “Prometheus pulled a trick on Zeus, splitting a sacrificial bull into two sacks. In one sack he put the rich thigh meat, the fat, but covered the top with unappetizing bones. In the other he put bones and organs, dressing the top with strips of thick creamy fat. Zeus chose the sack of bones, then, as punishment for this deceit, condemned mortals to animal sacrifice forever— upon burning the immortal bones of the animal, gods absorb that permanence and become more immortal; upon eating the mortal flesh of the animal, humans reaffirm their mortality. Thus the divide between the mortals and immortals is kept.”

“And this divide?” Enjolras asked stiffly. “Gods are meant to keep it?”

Feuilly tilted their head with an appraising look, but never once faltered in their steps. The ground beneath them was smooth brown stone, dusted with dirt; nothing grew along the sides. R would probably hate it here, what with his propensity for growing plants. Then again, maybe he would only see the lack of life as motivation— who else but the Twice-Born had the ability to fill the Underworld with life? Orpheus, perhaps, conducting the very veins of metal in the earth— but he was ultimately human, and had no place in the realm of Hades. Dionysus, on the other hand, was born into death; the airless, stifling black around them was a home of his.

A pall of melancholia fell over Enjolras— not so much by the notion of death, but rather, by the thought that R could call death home. Here stood Enjolras, entirely mortal; his flesh was pallid and felt unpleasantly damp, his muscles grew trembling and weak without the satisfaction of hard work, his breath came either fast and harsh or drowsy and slow. When Enjolras became a god, all these side effects would be, presumably, gone; Thanatos would lord no power over him. When Enjolras became a god, he would be _equal_ in capability and power to R— as much as Enjolras loathed admitting it, the little stunt R pulled at the Temple of Bacchus really shook him to the core. Never had his own _weakness_ as a mortal been made so abundantly clear to him.

And that was what R had been trying to tell him all this time, was it not? That he and Enjolras were fundamentally different, and as long as they straddled that divide, no _true_ understanding between them would occur. Enjolras would never understand what bound the hands of a god who wished for change, and R would only go on to grow more frustrated by Enjolras’s ( _naïve_?) insistences as a mortal. Their disagreements had made that clear. Enjolras as a god could cross that divide, yet…

“You are not familiar with me and my beliefs,” Enjolras spoke softly, when Feuilly made no motion to reply, “but I do need to tell you— if part of godhood is the mindless maintenance of the _status quo_ , I cannot do it. The moment we free R, I would deliver Apollo’s title to someone else.”

There was a soft huff from Feuilly. A brush of cloth obfuscated their face from Enjolras’s sight, but he thought he had seen a small smile.

“Sounds a bit irresponsible, don’t you think?” Feuilly mildly chastised. “As much as it may seem like Apollo picked you out of the blue, there is a reason he chose you as successor. Not any passerby will do.” They grew more serious, glancing back to watch for Enjolras’s reaction. “There is a reason R was attracted to you. There is a reason _I_ knew of you.”

“You knew of me?” Enjolras asked, quickly, in order to cover up the dust of pink at his cheeks when Feuilly mentioned R’s _attraction_ for him. Feuilly, of course, noticed and rolled their eyes, but blessedly did not comment.

“You functioned as the crossroads stop for Musichetta, Fantine and Cosette— how could I _not_ know of you?” they snorted instead. “And I… am not going to tell you what to do as a god. Other gods will— Zeus, certainly. He’s a tricky situation all on his own. But remember, as a god, you would be able to stand on equal grounds with other gods when you fight or argue, which is much more than you can say for humans.”

“But I don’t want to be the god that brings about plagues to earth because I’m throwing a hissing fit,” Enjolras said in frustration. Feuilly fixed him with a steady look. 

“Then don’t be.” 

Startled into laughter, Enjolras shot Feuilly a grateful look. The god reminded Enjolras of Fantine in many ways— balanced in their focus and so readily perceptive of the troubles of others. There was some of Cosette’s brightness in them as well, wit behind dancing eyes and deceptively simple words.

“Careful from this point on,” Feuilly suddenly spoke, voice stern. They ushered Enjolras behind them and kept him close. “The domain of the dead begins here— do not touch, do not accept their attention. I will try my best to keep the more negative effects off you, but be prepared to feel some… lag.”

Enjolras didn’t have to ask what they meant— the moment the ground beneath his feet changed to coarse sand, Enjolras felt the pressure change. There was a growing weight at the base of his neck, and in second his muscles felt sore and burning. His hands became cold and numb; the delicate skin of his lips chapped and bled. In the base of his stomach was a hollow sense of churning, and his throat itched with nausea.

“Take my hand,” Feuilly was saying in front of him. Enjolras didn’t comprehend at first, until Feuilly repeated themselves, more urgently. When their hands touched, Feuilly hissed in displeasure, but Enjolras felt the coldness begin to drain away before he could pull his hand back. “Good, keep your head down now, alright Enjolras? You’re going to hear voices, but you cannot listen. Think about something else. But don’t talk, don’t make a sound.”

Enjolras wasn’t used to following orders, but Feuilly’s were given with such firmness and good will that he would gladly try. Dismal shades of green and blue were shifting at the edges of his vision, and he tried to blur it all out— but even at his feet were the hint of faces, so in the end Enjolras just closed his eyes instead, trusting Feuilly to be his guide. And true to Feuilly’s words, whispers began, little tickles at the edges of Enjolras’s ears at first, then more persistent. In fact, some got so loud they burned, leaving Enjolras’s head feeling like it had been hit by a blast of sand. _Child, please, spare coin… Help…_

“ _Think about R_ ,” he heard dimly over all the sound. Oh, Enjolras could do that. R had a distinct and annoying way of completely occupying his thoughts, after all. Enjolras thought about R at the Temple, so strong and warm at first, with wind-swept hair and mischievous eyes. His nose had been big, his smile wide and confident— had that been R’s real form? Or, what was closest? If Enjolras were completely honest with himself, one benefit of being a god he was really looking forward to was the ability to see R in his true form. It wasn’t as if Enjolras couldn’t identify him, of course— merely that R had to hide something of himself just to keep Enjolras company. That was hardly fair, was it?

Stupid, stupid R and his stupid questions— how quickly they plunged into the matters closest to Enjolras’s heart and how quickly R was able to find fault. Yet, how invigorating it had been, the discourse, the stories. Enjolras wanted to lob every single point of philosophical contention at R and watch his artful counters. Enjolras wanted to lay words of piety at R’s feet and feel the awe-inspiring power of Dionysus wrap around him again, wanted to push and crowd R against a pillar and argue until R admitted defeat. Enjolras wanted to watch him grow flowers again; R had looked so content weaving the plants through the air, and the blooms were _so beautiful_ , aglow with life.

Thinking about R as a method of distraction was, as it turned out, incredibly effective. Eyes and all other senses determinedly shut, Enjolras did not notice Feuilly stopping and trying to get his attention, until a pair of hands clapped sharply right in front of Enjolras’s face. His eyes snapped open, and found himself staring at a flush of purple orchids. 

“Hello,” a voice said, beneath the orchids, “I’m Jehan.”

The deity crowned with the orchids was, of course, the infamous Persephone. Enjolras found himself digging into the little strength he had to bow deep and low; while Feuilly looked on with amusement, Jehan only looked pleased, and Enjolras counted that as a win.

“This is Enjolras, here for a godly mission,” Feuilly introduced, their tone thick with irony. Their smirk turned apologetic, however, when they looked at Enjolras. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think you would be so heavily affected by Tartarus; I had forgotten that you lacked divine blood.”

“It’s crazy that you’re not related to Apollo, though,” Jehan contributed. Their hands flittered up and ran through Enjolras’s hair, leaving the tresses brighter in their wake. “It’s kind of nice, actually— when you take Apollo’s place, the temples won’t have to change their statues or anything.”

“Um, good.” Enjolras’s hair was unmistakably glowing now, the more Jehan’s hands brushed through them. It created a little halo of warmth around his head, and his temples ceased their painful throbbing. Enjolras sighed in appreciation. “What are you doing to my hair?”

“Why, life wards of course!” they answered cheerfully. “You’re my special guest— as much as the moans of the dissatisfied dead are part of the ambience, it clearly bothers you, so we’ll take that out of the equation. Now, you’re here for Tantalus, yes?”

Reminded of his task, Enjolras nodded and began looking around. With Jehan’s wards in his hair (but really? his hair? couldn’t they have made him a bracelet or something?), the souls of the dead were clearly keeping their distance. Green and blue now formed a sort of undulating wave in the background as Enjolras took in the dreadful scene. It was as if Nyx had fallen upon a rocky spread of land and draped everything in ink— the pitch, empty black set the hairs at the back of Enjolras’s neck on end. They were standing at the foot of a steep hill, and Enjolras could just make out a moving figure near the top. To their left, a flock of winged women, looking haggard and bitter, flew back and forth over the top of a giant jar with holes at its bottom, attempting to fill the reservoir with little pots of water.

“Who are they?” Enjolras found himself asking. Behind him, Jehan made a shushing sound and stepped closer to Enjolras.

“I will gladly tell you all their stories,” Jehan murmured in Enjolras’s ear, “but over supper, perhaps. Now, we find your destination.”

Jehan pointed at one of the winged women, and Enjolras watched her flight down and over to a standing lake. The water was clear and bright, but in the cold way of a harvested gemstone, not so incredibly kind. A slight push on his back by Jehan sent him forward for the lake.

“We go no further,” Feuilly called to his back, their voice already a little indistinct. “Jehan and I will watch from here. You know what to do.”

With a nervous swallow, Enjolras nodded and started toward the lake. The body of water stood unnaturally still, as if it were a giant puddle spilled across the floor; no waves lapped at the perimeter line. As Enjolras drew closer, a large apple tree came into view, standing in the middle of the lake. A man stood directly under the eaves of branches. 

Sandals perched just before the water, Enjolras paused, and called out, “Are you Tantalus?”

“King of Phrygia, aye.” The man spoke with a bitter, croaking voice, and when he looked up at Enjolras his eyes were gaunt, heavy with madness. A certain pitying indignance threatened to well up, but Enjolras ruthlessly tamped it down, reminding himself that this was the criminal who slaughtered his own son to feed to the gods. Tantalus deserved no pity. “And to whom do I speak?”

“Just a shepherd,” Enjolras answered cautiously. “Here on a task of _Delphinius_ Apollo. I am to gather water from this lake and an apple from that tree.”

“Just a shepherd…” Tantalus slurred, swaying in his spot. His hand dipped down toward the lake, but Enjolras watched in amazement as the water pulled away from his touch. The resulting ripple sent water splashing over Enjolras’s feet, and it felt uncomfortably tepid. Enjolras shivered nonetheless, and Tantalus’s mouth split in a hysterical cackle. “Well you’ll have to fetch the lot yourself, won’t you? Please, come in, the water’s fine.”

Feuilly and Jehan were still in view, two prone figures standing watchfully— but at such distance, Enjolras could hardly imagine them being of use at a moment’s notice. Feeling a sudden burst of panic, Enjolras momentarily cursed the heroes depicted in statues and paintings, always with a patron god at their sides. Where was Grey-Eyed Athena when he needed divine support?

Oh, right, the great divide. Enjolras supposed that’s what he gets for not being of divine lineage. For a brief moment, he entertained the thought of Dionysus as his patron god— R would probably be in the lake already, calf-deep and rolling his eyes. _It’s just water, Enjolras_ , he’d say with a teasing smirk, _it won’t even touch your perfect hair, I promise._

The resulting annoyance, but also embarrassment, successfully motivated Enjolras enough to wade into the water. He moved forward at an almost aggressive speed, and Tantalus leaned back in a full-belly laugh (though the sound itself came out more like bone-rattling wheezes).

“You sure are a handsome fellow, aren’t you?” Enjolras refused to respond to that, instead focused his efforts on filling the empty wineskin at his side with the water from the lake. Tantalus, below his tree, leaned as far forward as he could, panting open-mouthed at Enjolras with the effort. “Could give your Apollo a run for his money, I reckon. My son, my son was just as handsome as you— more so, in fact. Can you believe that?”

Wineskin full, Enjolras now had to get the apple. He paced a wide circle around, and Tantalus followed his every step with a lascivious grin. Taking a calming breath, Enjolras imagined R behind him, hurtling all sorts of insults at the Phrygian king.

“You need the apple now?” Tantalus simpered. He held his arms out, the slacken skin peppered with dark spots of malnutrition. “Go for it. I cannot leave the tree, you understand, but don’t worry— I won’t do anything.”

“Swear it,” Enjolras demanded. “Swear you will not hurt me when I come near, and I will not hurt you.”

A small knife that Joly had packed for him sat in his pocket. How useful it would be against the dwellers of Tartarus, however, Enjolras had no idea— in a moment of regret, he wished Joly could have blessed the knife instead. Meanwhile, Tantalus was crowing to the skies (or rather, the earth above him).

“I swear it!” he screeched. “By the name of Styx I swear to not hurt this shepherd boy before me, as he takes an apple that I have been pining for, as he so easily _touches_ the fruits— oh he can eat them too, I bet. He can just bite into it, crunch it between his teeth, the juice must be so sweet, so succulent—”

With the oath sworn, Enjolras had little patience for the old man’s ramblings. He immediately started forward, reaching for the lowest-hanging apple, red and ripe like a little jewel shining in the black cave. The moment he picked it, however, Tantalus’s hands shot out, wrapping themselves around Enjolras’s wrist.

“Get _off_ me!” he shouted, trying to twist away. But desperation has made Tantalus strong, his eyes fixated on the apple in Enjolras’s hand. Nails dug into Enjolras’s flesh like pinchers, and Enjolras barely tossed the apple backwards out of his reach before falling and shaking Tantalus off in the water. With a howl, Tantalus started forward, but jerked back, as if invisible chains held him to his tree. The man fell against the tree, screaming his throat raw, punching and kicking at the air before him as if he could reach Enjolras by sheer force of will.

And Enjolras, half-submerged in the lake, could feel the warm dripping away from his head. And his wrist was bleeding. Everything was growing cold and a little grey. Breath threatening to choke up in panic, Enjolras quickly picked himself up, stumbling to the spot in the lake where the apple fell, and fished it up. Behind him, Tantalus was still screaming (more with a tinge of pain, now— all sorts of awful things happened when one breaks an oath sworn to Styx), but Enjolras tuned him out. _Think of R, think of R_. R, eyes wide and worried (were his eyes brown like the earth he was so fond of? perhaps dark blue and violet, like the grapes he bred). R, holding his wounded hand. R, whispering apologies as he pulled back, back and away, because R wasn’t here. Had gone and sealed himself off in a cave, and was now making Enjolras go through Hades to get him out.

Oh, he and R would have _words_ once R was free.

But Enjolras had succeeded. Apple in hand and water at his hip, Enjolras had survived the Underworld, and was going to become a god. He was going to become Apollo, nevertheless— perhaps he’d be able to heal his own wounds.

He made his way back to Feuilly and Jehan— it was as if he crossed an invisible boundary when Jehan finally leapt forward, throwing their arms around Enjolras. Their congratulations were hearty and cheerful, as were their happy invitations for Enjolras to join them and the Lord of the Underworld for dinner. 

Which was all well and good. Enjolras just wished they could have picked another time— when he wasn’t going to pass out in Feuilly’s arms, maybe.

* * *

 

He really had to stop falling unconscious around these gods, Enjolras thought faintly to himself. He hadn’t blacked out like he thought he would— only, all the muscles he possessed seemed to have gone on vacation without him, and all his bones felt like mud. He didn’t even have strength to close his eyes fully and perhaps catch some sleep. Enjolras could only watch dimly as Feuilly and Jehan hovered worriedly above him, mouths moving in speech and such. 

Oh, and Enjolras couldn’t hear. What a truly fantastic experience. He held no envy for any and all heroes who had to slosh through this kind of thing.

Strong arms hoisted him up, and Enjolras found himself wrapped in Feuilly’s robes and cradled in their arms. Jehan leaned into view, expression rather tragic, for some reason (oh gods, was Enjolras going to die? Had he somehow messed this up so much that he was going to _die_ before freeing R?). Their elegant fingers removed the orchid crown from their head and placed it over Enjolras’s chest (that’s it, he was going to die, at least he was already in the Underworld, no need for a second trip)— there was an immediate hum of warmth, growing hotter and hotter by the moment.

Flowers burning against him, magical robes wrapped around him, Enjolras felt his world distorting again— but wait, Feuilly couldn’t transport them from here, could they? At least, not comfortably. And sure enough, Feuilly’s face above him was harsh with concentration, teeth gritted and brows furrowed. Jehan’s hands had found their way to Feuilly’s cheeks, and hung there glowing, lending strength, perhaps. Enjolras wished he could close his eyes to the nauseating mode of travel, but he settled for watching Feuilly, thinking aggressively positive thoughts at the god as they magicked out of the Underworld.

Shades of green came back to them piece by piece, and by the time the last spots of black disappeared, Feuilly was falling to their knees, Jehan nowhere in sight. Enjolras wanted to help— or, to stop being a useless weight in their arms, at least— but it was as if his body was a puppet severed from its strings. He could make no use of it. There was still only the high ringing, as if a bell, in his ears, and Feuilly looked pained and dizzy—

Another pair of hands guided Enjolras, then Feuilly, to the ground. Out of the corner of his eyes, Enjolras could make out Joly’s healer’s robes. Oh thank the gods. Enjolras had tumbled sideways out of Feuilly’s lap, and Jehan’s flowers fell from his chest onto the grass. The source of warmth gone, Enjolras began shivering again— violently, this time, body and limbs thrashing against the ground, his control over them completely lost. His eyes truly did shut this time, rolling into the back of his head, and the black was returning—

There was a steady pressure at his shoulder. Then, a more insistent one, ultimately pinning him to the earth. The source of pressure moved up toward his neck, pressing hard enough to close off his windpipe— not that it made much of a different to Enjolras, who had already been choking around his spasming throat and— a shot of pain _shattering_ in Enjolras’s head and— something lightning-like through all his muscles and all his veins and—

He shot up with a desperate, ripping gasp for air, feeling surging painfully back through all his limbs. Hands caught his flailing arms and pinned them tightly to his sides. Enjolras struggled in vain, bucking and kicking and twitching, fingernails clawing at whomever held him from behind—

A hand dug into the hair at the back of his head and _yanked_ , jerking his head up to meet a pair of cold, silver eyes.

“ _Stop_ ,” the goddess hissed. “And shut _up_.”

If Enjolras obeyed for any reason, it was as a hare would in the face of a fox, limbs locking and pupils dilating. His breath was still coming up short, and a soft, warm hand had moved to his chest, massaging in slow circles to get Enjolras calm. The hand moved up to his throat, fingers caressing behind his ear and then down again, back to the chest, then down to the stomach, where it splayed its fingers wide. 

Joly cleared his throat somewhere to Enjolras’s left.

“Um, Apollo? Could you… stop that, please?”

“I’m only trying to help,” said a liquid-smooth voice right by Enjolras’s ears (oh right, Apollo, sun god, golden god, the one Enjolras was supposed to replace, the one Enjolras was currently _swooning_ in the arms of, much to his distress and embarrassment). This time, it was Feuilly who replied, managing to sound quite annoyed despite their obvious exhaustion.

“You can help without feeling him up. Enjolras is calm now, let him go.” 

The goddess in front obediently pulled away, looking quite happy to do so. But Apollo just hummed a little petulantly.

“Well I’ve got to transfer my power to him somehow, don’t I?”

“I hardly think that involves stripping him.” Enjolras could hear Feuilly’s scowl. If only he could find the strength to do something about it. Whatever the woman had done, it had helped Enjolras regain control of his body, only to take it right back away from him (or was it Apollo who was doing that?). This time, though, it felt less like winter had taken shelter in his body, and more like a lazy morning after an illness passes. Really, Enjolras _wanted_ to pull away, but Apollo’s hands were just so incredibly soft, and persuasive, and calming…

“ _You_ don’t know what I have to do,” Apollo said, apparently five years old.

“Brother, I’ve never done this and even _I_ know transferring your powers does not require that much skin contact,” said a voice Enjolras had never heard before. Enjolras had enough of his wits about him to look for the source— it was a young, handsome man— no, _god_ , if the way he glowed and spoke was any indication. The new god (Apollo’s brother?) was watching Enjolras with an expression of mild concern, as perhaps a cat might look upon a drowning mouse. “And— are you _bewitching_ the mortal? Dionysus has already laid claim, you know. That would be inadvisable.”

Apollo groaned a sullen, “fine, whatever,” and let his hands fall away. Enjolras immediately latched onto the well of energy that ( _finally_ ) poured back in him and scrambled away. A grip on his ankle, however, kept him from going far. Apollo again. “Not so fast, little one. I actually _do_ need to do something to you.”

And, before anyone could sound a protest, before Enjolras himself can twist away, Apollo pushed forward and kissed him. 

The displeased yells around them (“Oh come _on_ , brother—” “ _Apollo_ , are you for real right now—”) became background raindrops as Enjolras’s ears filled with something grand and orchestral— properly dramatic for such a moment. He wondered if Apollo was doing it on purpose, or if it were truly just a side effect of—

Oh gods, the power transfer. He was doing it, right here right now? With such little preamble! Enjolras was hardly prepared— he hadn’t been prepared for any of this. Really, this entire day had just been one long miserable wreck with quite literally _everything_ out of Enjolras’s control. Was this how all the characters in divine tragedies felt? Phaedra, Antigone? If so, Enjolras had new sympathy for the humans tossed about by the whimsical acts of the gods— new anger as well. Gathering from what the others were saying around him, Enjolras understood that there had been a more-than-decent chance that Apollo would have just made off with him, promise or not. Just how _entitled_ were these gods that they thought blatant kidnapping and oath-breaking was okay?

(Granted, Apollo never made an oath. But like the other god said— R and Enjolras had already sort of unofficially laid claim to each other— who were the gods to invalidate that?) 

(They were the _gods_. The same gods that ripped Troy and a generation of Greeks to shreds to satisfy their own petty disagreements. Enjolras made a vow _that very second_ to never, ever affect the world in such a distinctly _stupid_ way.)

There was one distinct moment when everything sharpened, when all his senses came together and the world _became_. Sun, sky, songs in the wind, the horizon line, mountains in the distance— an instinctive pull in his gut that he knew would guide him straight to Olympus, _home_ — trees, bushes, flowers. As if his entire life, he had been watching a deluge, numb to the constant buzz of rainsong, but all of a sudden he could parse out every single drop of rain. Every single blade of grass. And every ant that sidled between the grass, into the grains of soil and the mass of roots curled just underneath the surface, waiting for spring or waiting for a godly hand to guide them up.

They felt cold. Closing his eyes, Enjolras asked the sun the warm the soil above. He guided, and the world went— Enjolras knew the roots would be sprouting stems by this time tomorrow.

“Look, he’s a natural,” Apollo, softly in front of him. Enjolras opened his eyes and stared at, blankly, a much more _mortal_ looking Apollo. He was still beautiful, still had a hypnotic sway in the blink of his eyes— but something had gone out, like a cloudless sky.

Unlike all those around him, who clearly emanated something _more_ , something that now synced with Enjolras’s entire being. He could recognize them by feeling alone— Joly was the pale eggshell smell of fresh linen, a careful hand of his still wrapped around Feuilly, who felt like ancient driftwood, sailing the seas with more mastery than any ship could dare. Though they felt weak, Enjolras was sure that they would get better.

The goddess who had pulled Enjolras’s hair was— of course, he should have guessed— Artemis, who felt chilly and held a bow in her hand. The arrows in her quiver were familiar, made of glass— Enjolras suddenly saw a memory of her foot on Enjolras’s neck, bracing him against the ground as she shot a healing arrow through his head.

The other god, who had called Apollo brother, was Hermes, like dove’s wings, who now watched Apollo with a stricken expression.

And Apollo, with a wry smile, just shrugged. “It is done,” he said. His expression was slack with defeat, and Hermes stepped forward with a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“…Thank you,” Enjolras said. Then, at loss for a follow-up (he could hardly say _I will make better use of this power than you_ ), he asked, “what are you going to do now?”

“I have contacts up north,” Apollo answered, life flickering back as he peeked up at Hermes. “But first, a _quest_ with my dear brother here, right?”

“In search for my replacement,” Hermes confirmed. Then, with a dramatic sigh and a solemn shake of his head, “I can’t believe I’m giving up my _powers_ for you.”

“You too?” Enjolras asked, stunned. Hermes turned to him with a mournful look.

“Unfortunately. How am I supposed to leave this idiot alone as a mortal, huh?”

“You’ll do it because you love me,” Apollo just said with a now-happy smile, standing up. Hermes couldn’t quite hide his grin. “And care for my well-being. And _love_ me.”

Artemis, to the side, snorted. “Don’t look at me,” she murmured darkly. “I’m happy where I am. And besides, someone has to remain a god to _kill_ the imposter when you want to come back.”

When she glared at Enjolras, he had another moment of clarity— she would absolutely hunt him down to the corners of the world, should Apollo ever want his powers back.

“Don’t worry, New Apollo.” Hermes was addressing Enjolras now, a glint in his eyes a lot like a challenge. “We don’t expect him to change his mind for another three years or so— he’s stubborn like that— so you get a _little_ bit of a head start.”

“Run fast, _bunny_ ,” was Artemis’s parting words, before she bared her teeth and sprinted away into the woods. Apollo threw his head back in uproarious laughter.

“Oh you’ll have fun dealing with her,” he wheezed gleefully at Enjolras. Then, with a cheeky grin, he wrapped his arms around Hermes’s neck and jumped into his brother’s arms. “Alright then prince charming, I am but a weak mortal now, completely powerless. Take me, I’m yours.”

Hermes’s sandals began glowing and the wings on the sides began flapping. As he obediently began to take off, Apollo steady in his arms, Hermes could be heard saying, “You are _literally_ not weak, nor powerless, you little leech. And you’re supposed to be older than me—”

They disappeared in a streak of light like a shooting star, leaving a mess of a situation behind them with no care in the world. So really, the only response Enjolras could _possibly_ have to the situation was giving in to his frustration and stamping his feet to the ground.

“I _hate_ gods so much. _Fuck_.”

* * *

 

And the rest. How incredibly strange that just earlier that day, Enjolras had been human? Actually, what seemed barbed and always got caught on Enjolras’s mind was the fact that he had become a god for a singular reason that had really nothing to do with godhood. In what sort of story was obtaining immortality only _incidental_?

But while he’s got it, Enjolras was hardly going to complain. The whole world seemed _alive_ — he could hear the impossible patterns of a breeze whistling through a spread of leaves, could see the nymphs and their bright, pretty eyes peeking from the woods and trees, could command a forest of birdsongs with a wave of his hand. Joly’s horses galloped a steady rhythm, as Enjolras and Joly both kept casual contact with the beasts, healing their muscles as soon as they grew sore. It felt a lot like washing his hands, Enjolras discovered, peeling away layers of dirt and dust— thoroughly satisfying and quite fulfilling. At this rate, they would get to R in an afternoon. How utterly _compelling_ to be a god.

But amidst all his giddy joy, there was a logical part of Enjolras’s mind that reminded him of his vows. Of course, of course. With the power of divinity as enticing as it was, it made sense to set up fail-safes to keep Enjolras from becoming what he didn’t want to be. Another scarier part of his mind was insistent that if he made no restrictions on himself, he would become as bad as the first Apollo had been. 

(Vaguely, Enjolras realized that he was now the god of moderation and good sense, along with prophecy. How exactly those worked in tangent with his personality, he’d have to parse out later.)

“Feuilly, Joly,” he said, and his companions in the chariot obligingly turned their attentions to him. “I hereby swear an oath on the name of Styx to never be a tyrant in my deeds. I must not ever use my powers for petty means, and I must not ever be inattentive in my powers. Upon anybody’s call, I will judge the situation fully and act accordingly. I cannot hurt anybody with malicious intent.”

Enjolras felt the vow settle, like sediments along a riverbank, and sighed in relief. Before him, Feuilly was chuckling.

“Apollo made a good choice,” they said approvingly. “You are probably everything he said he was _supposed_ to be.”

“I knew Musichetta liked you for a reason,” Joly said, grinning broadly. “Oh boy, I can’t wait for you to get R out. You’ll be like, _hey, I’m a god now_. He’ll be so surprised.”

“I can see the look on his face already,” Enjolras lied, because while he knew how Dionysus would _feel_ in his presence, he still had no idea how R actually looked. Would he just be surprised, or would he also be angry? Oh gods, what if he called Enjolras a hypocrite? It sure would be deserved, after everything Enjolras said about bridging the gap between humans and gods— did it seem like Enjolras took the first chance to become a god? That Apollo said jump and Enjolras asked how high? What if R asked about the power transfer, and Enjolras had to tell him about the _kiss_? How was Enjolras supposed to explain _that_?

“Enjolras, you haven’t breathed for the past minute,” said Feuilly in a steady voice. “Gods don’t need to breathe, but you seem like you’re panicking about something.”

Glancing up, Enjolras took an obedient breath, in then out. Then, “I _am_ panicking, but it’s utterly stupid.”

“As your patron god of medicine, I say you should talk it out,” Joly encouraged with a toothy smile. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“I am not a hypocrite!” Enjolras suddenly burst out. “I’m not. With every _drop_ of power in me I will make sure the world is a better place. Now I’m a god I’m just in better position to do so, I’m not going to just— just _mess around_ , you know? I won’t, I refuse to. And _I_ didn’t kiss _him_ , okay? That was— you two saw it! I didn’t, I— it wasn’t me!”

“…Ooo _kay_ , as your patron god of medicine, maybe don’t talk it out right now, to us,” Joly said, looking regretful. “Save it for R? Because I don’t— yeah, I’m fine, thank you.”

“Those are my _feelings_ ,” Enjolras said, feeling slightly betrayed. He turned to Feuilly for judicial action, but they only grimaced.

“That’s a good point, actually.” If it weren’t for the way Feuilly’s eyes got all shifty, Enjolras would not have wanted to accuse them of changing the subject. “Have you thought about what you’re going to say to R?”

“Well, all that, I suppose.”

“No, I mean about what happened at the Temple of Bacchus.” Brows furrowed, Feuilly leaned forward with their fingers steepled together. “Do you… want to talk about that?”

Enjolras found he had no immediate answer. He had thought about it, of course, but everything had happened so quickly that he had yet to come to a conclusion. Now, he sat back, watched the world pass by at an inhuman speed, yet being able to casually discern every piece of roadside pebble.

“First, what he did was…” Terrifying. Inexcusable. “…bad. He can’t do that again. Not just to me, to anyone. At least, not without their consent.”

“That’s fair,” Feuilly agreed. “In celebration of the Dionysia, people _allow_ for R to influence their feelings. And it’s not just the power of Dionysus, humans manage the madness pretty well on their own.” Wryly, “as perfectly demonstrated by the rest of the festival going off with barely a hitch in R’s absence.”

“If it’s worth anything, he won’t be able to do that again to you as a god,” Joly said softly.

“Thank you, that’s good to know.” Enjolras took a deep breath. “And second… Our point of disagreement is not something that would just go away because I’m a god. And honestly, I don’t know what to do about that. Granted he still wants to talk to me, we’ll argue, we’ll get angry at each other.”

“Of course he still wants to talk to you,” Joly, faintly. Enjolras offered him a shrug and a smile.

“But despite all that, I’m going to get him back. And ask, at least, where we’re at. It’s— I just—” A rough expulsion of breath and raking his fingers through his hair. “I want closure. We’ll figure out an ending, one way or another.”

“And we will make sure R doesn’t go anywhere before you reach that closure,” Feuilly half-joked. “Are you ready then?”

Hephaestus’s volcano was swiftly approaching, dark forests at its base and a red cloudbank at its peak. Enjolras hardly needed the power of prophecy to see the ominous signs.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

* * *

For the past five days, Grantaire had been conducting an experiment. His hypothesis: a god can burn himself out. There is a violent, indigo sort of tinge to his magic, like rotting fruits, the smell sickly sweet. He wondered if he could scrape it all out of him, pale fingers digging in like maggots, writhing. Grantaire was shaking now; he hadn’t been yesterday. Good, good. Perhaps his experiment was working.

Vines and roots and creepers have burst in through the dirt walls, like desperate children begging him to stop. But they didn’t understand— Grantaire was doing this for their good, for everybody’s good. Didn’t they see their own paper-thin edges? Didn’t they see the crust of eggshell-colored pus lining their stems? There was an awful poison at the heart of Grantaire’s power, and it all needed to come out.

So he knocked back the floodgates, a pressure in his head swelling like a river. His sticky ghastly magic drowned the room and threatened to smother him. Good. His mortal flesh had surfaced, alongside blood, alongside clawing hunger inside his ribs. Great ferns seeping milky sap covered him from sight, swallowing Grantaire up like teeth. Somewhere, a lion roared over its decimated prey. That was the first day.

Second day, moss and lichen carpeted the ground and tried to crawl up the burning walls. Grantaire wouldn’t let them, preferring coarse earth to rip his fingers through, to break his bones against. Second day was punching and kicking day, was shattered teeth day. Second day was bloody fertilizer day. The plants grew larger and more putrid, everybody was happy. 

Third day was wilting day. Fresh bloody blooms all around Grantaire’s body wilted back to flesh, and the plants died. Grantaire wanted to water them with ichor, but found with delight that he no longer had strength to reconsolidate his immortal body. At least, not wholly— he still healed, disappointingly. His magic leached through the earth and left the whole room smelling of rot and vinegar. Air was getting in from somewhere; no wine would brew in this rancid barrel.

Fourth day was concentration. Grantaire curled up in a small ball, fetal position, and wrapped himself tight with blackberry stems. Thorns and thistles and the roughest bark Grantaire knew, he grew them all. As dense as possible. All around him in a loving embrace, in brutal restraint. Into these Grantaire shoved his magic, like veins right into the earth. Grantaire felt himself fraying, fading, screaming. Bloody throat day.

On the fifth day he shook. And shook and shook, and bled. Indigo dripped solemnly out of him, and the earth was greedy. Going, going, gone. The fifth day was ending, and Grantaire now knew how to kill a god. Too bad he wouldn’t be around to pass the knowledge on.

Dusk of the fifth day, Grantaire had grown so dull that he didn’t notice the cave unseal— not at first. Only when a breeze swept through his static room did Grantaire begin to panic, thinking Apollo had come. Sungold Apollo who will surely look upon Grantaire with disgust, who will only bring to mind Enjolras, sculpted and angry, the downturn of his mouth and the baring of his teeth. Apollo’s sneers Grantaire could take, but Enjolras’s condemnation he could do without. 

And so he threw all his magic into a blockade, thorns growing atop thorns. _Out_ , he wanted to scream, bloody spittle flying from his lips, but he could hardly move. Grantaire was strung up tight like a pig at a butcher’s— why hadn’t he bled out quicker?

Grantaire grieved for the plants he felt being pushed aside by divine hands. Apollo bled ichor, clear like water, which the plants greedily drank. They obeyed _him_ now, flushing thick and dark and green like they ought to. Grantaire’s poison had run dry; he held no sway over them anymore.

And Grantaire was crying, his solitude too short. And here came Apollo, the _moderator_ , like the sunrise after a storm, burning Grantaire raw.

Fingers touched his cheek, and with his last ounce of strength Grantaire ordered an attack— an impalement of berry vines. The hand at his face jerked in surprise, but held steady as the last of Grantaire’s perimeter defenses came down, peeling off Apollo but straining toward him nonetheless. Plants reaching for the sun— how poetic. Grantaire’s skin felt charred where Apollo touched, his whole body rattling.

“…Dionysus, who in his service not the arts of war, weapons and cavalry, but tender garlands, myrrh-scented tresses and embroidered robes of gold and purple,” spoke a tender, familiar voice, and Grantaire refused to open his eyes and look. The sight was surely an illusion; Grantaire deserved nothing but tragedy. Bones knitting, flesh healing. Magic trickling back into him like drops of a melting brook in spring, no poison in sight. “R, please look at me.”

And who was Grantaire to ignore that plea, from that voice? He peeled his eyes open and kept crying, face screwed up all ugly, mouth gaping open in a hideous sob. And his throat— his throat was healed, and the first thing he could think to say was—

“ _Grantaire_.” The word barely made it out before his throat closed up like a door again. _That’s my name_ , he wanted to whisper, but shaking overtook him instead. _Say it, say it._

Enjolras (Apollo?), like a prophet, repeated, “ _Grantaire_.” A single, slender finger, reaching out to trace a trek of tears down Grantaire’s cheek. Enjolras, also Apollo, like he so wanted to be happy, repeated, “ _Grantaire_.”

Grantaire crumbled like a straw hut in a rainstorm. He fell backwards, forwards, uncertain and still entirely weak, even though Enjolras had sent a pulse of healing through him, and there was nothing _physically_ wrong with Grantaire anymore. He held his palms out in supplication. Held his palms out in punishment. _Burn me,_ he wanted to say. _Heal me_ , he wanted to cry. 

Instead, from his mouth, only this: _Sorry_. And: _sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry_. And: _Enjolras. Sorry_.

When Enjolras drew him into a hug, Grantaire didn’t move, just kept murmuring. When Enjolras clasped his hands and moved them up to touch Enjolras’s own face, it was all too _good_ for Grantaire to stand. He tried to pull away, but Enjolras would have none of it, glaring fiercely into Grantaire’s eyes, point-blank, the tips of their nose almost touching.

_I’m sorry._

_Grantaire._

He said the word smiling, not as if it were a mouthful of bitter seeds he could do without. Enjolras said the name, and it was every bit as resounding as Grantaire had thought it would be. Enjolras said the name like absolution, like fresh blooms in spring and the delicate wave of Jehan’s hands. By his tongue, _Grantaire_ sounded like the peeling away of chrysalis skin, the first beat of three-day insect wings. _Grantaire._

Three more words:

_We’ll be okay._

And against all odds, Grantaire could believe it.


	2. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A kiss and a cameo.

Clean air and dirty sandals— Grantaire doesn’t think he’s ever had it so good. Clouds blooming along the horizon and wind like long hair on the prettiest lady. This was the first time he had climbed Enjolras’s mountain on his own, and the day was blue.

Full amends to Bahorel took a two-day banquet and a life-time vow that Grantaire would never do something so rude and dumb again. Privately, Grantaire thought the vow meant very little, given how relative concepts like “rude” and “dumb” were when they concerned Grantaire, but he could hardly have said that aloud, given how intent Bahorel had been when he made Grantaire swear the vow.

Jehan had alighted and brought spring with them. They were quite disappointed to “miss all the fun,” and declared that everyone should make it up to him with presents, as per the tradition of all wronged magical beings. Nobody contested the declaration. Bossuet and Musichetta, who had joined them for the second day of the party by invitation of Joly, presented Jehan with domain over the richest riverbank in Corona. Feuilly’s present was a handcrafted fan with a brilliant spread of summer red-paper. Bahorel had wanted to shower Jehan with the trinkets and jewelry and weapons he had dug out of Hephaestus’s stores, but was ultimately convinced by Feuilly to ration the gifts. His final present was a small silver spoon that always filled with honey, as well as a little storage jar for it. Jehan was quite delighted before turning an expectant look on Grantaire.

And Grantaire, fully recovered from his _experimentation_ , conjured up a bouquet of never-dying roses. But before he could hand it off to Jehan, Enjolras’s soft touch on his elbow stopped him.

Everybody watched as Enjolras spun the sunlight out of the air, weaving the threads into the roses until every petal glowed like a fresh spring morning. Before he was even done Jehan was throwing their arms around him and Grantaire in a big grateful hug. Enjolras looked likewise elated by his own abilities and— possibly in a delusion of Grantaire’s— turned a momentary look of shyness toward Grantaire.

The banquet had been slated to go on, but Joly begged healing duties and Bossuet reluctantly admitted that he had a kingdom to run. (Nobody said a word though, when Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta all headed off in the same direction, despite their destinations being quite opposite of each other’s.) Enjolras too, said he had to quickly learn his job, and that he had some unfinished business to take care of anyways, so he must go.

Enjolras, who was _Apollo_ now. Enjolras who had left his human life behind to help Grantaire, to free him. It was absurd how incredibly _awkward_ Grantaire behaved around him after the fact, but, well, Grantaire’s never claimed to be particularly well-adjusted. Grantaire didn’t _avoid_ Enjolras, per se— only conversation with him. To be fair, Enjolras hadn’t seemed too keen on discussion anyways, so Grantaire had figured that they might… just… drift apart. Go their own ways after this incident and just… forget about it.

Grantaire had been dumb enough to confess this train of thought when Feuilly asked, and earned himself a good smack over the head. Strangely enough, Feuilly went off to talk to _Enjolras_ , forgoing scolding Grantaire altogether.

That was the morning before Enjolras left. At the workshop entrance, as everyone left was seeing him off (Grantaire was trying his best to appear casual and noncommittal). To his surprise (and a little sense of betrayal), Grantaire watched as Feuilly, Bahorel, and Jehan all uniformly stepped away, not even bothering with subtlety. Enjolras and Grantaire were left, standing together, relatively alone for the first time in… a while.

And Enjolras looked _soft_ , like sunlight in water.

_We need to talk, R. Will you come to the house on the mountain in a day?_

Grantaire, nodding dumbly, watched Enjolras’s mouth flick up in a small smile, then his departure. After a moment, Bahorel was behind him, hands on his shoulders.

 _You’ve a day to think, then_ , he said, tone neutral. Grantaire turned a bleary-eyed look on his friend.

_Rather, I think I have a day to **drink**._

* * *

Grantaire actually did not spend the day drinking— by his choice, he might add! There was only a cup of mild wine here and there— Enjolras, God of Moderation now, would be proud.

But now he stood on the mountain, blessed by Apollo; river song and wind song alike chimed in the air, and its dirt was warm to the touch. Closing his eyes, Grantaire could sense Enjolras waiting, sitting on a boulder beside the bush of wild roses Grantaire had grown. Enjolras could sense him too, hesitating. What a pair they made, hovering around each other like flecks of dust suspended in sunbeam.

But they had to talk sooner or later, Grantaire supposed. They were both gods of the Pantheon now; they had to have a somewhat functional working relationship. Actually, that was hardly true— the number of rivalries between the Olympians was too numerous to count. Grantaire had never been close to the old Apollo either. For the new Apollo to not get along with Dionysus was hardly going to be the end of the world.

And then Enjolras called from atop the hill, exasperated, “Grantaire, will you please get up here already?”

Several godly steps carried Grantaire to Enjolras, all his previous hesitation momentarily erased. “Pardon,” he muttered, “I was distracted.”

“By the scenery, no doubt,” deadpanned Enjolras. Then, more gently, “we ought to talk.”

“So you’ve said,” Grantaire said mildly. “I could always keep apologizing— I know this is one of those lifetime things that never ends— but it would be more productive, I feel, if you would just tell me to do things for you—”

“I hardly need more apologies from you,” Enjolras interrupted, expression stern. “You’ve made it more than clear that it was a one-time accident and you don’t intend to do it again. And I believe you, so stop worrying about that.”

Grantaire’s sandals slid momentarily backwards— him giving in to the instinct to _run_ for a blink— but he made himself stay in place.

“What’s this about then?” he asked cautiously.

Enjolras turned away to gather his thoughts, and Grantaire was right from the start— Enjolras was a beloved of the sun. Even after he took on Apollo’s veneer, there was something about Enjolras that stilled evoked the breathtaking humanity of his mortal self. It was the arch of his neck perhaps, elegant but not haughty, or the purse of his lips, mindful of the words that should come out like few gods would ever be. Enjolras, a good man, would surely be a great god.

“I went to the Underworld.”

Right, Grantaire knew that. Jehan had said as much when they surfaced, almost sending Grantaire into another bout of panic when he thought he had killed Enjolras. It took a very quick explanation of Apollo’s task from Feuilly and some friendly jests from Joly ( _As if you have the power to kill anyone, haha_ ) to settle Grantaire back down. But nonetheless, the information didn’t sit well with Grantaire.

“Hades can be horrible for a mortal,” he said. Enjolras looked him in the eyes and nodded.

“It was. If it weren’t for Artemis and Apollo, I would have died.” Enjolras’s tone was matter-of-fact, but did nothing to help Grantaire’s already-plummeting self-esteem. Enjolras was still speaking, though, and Grantaire made himself postpone the self-flagellation to listen. “Feuilly told me I only survived as long as I did because of my stability of mind, that I was anchored very strongly to life.”

“I should hope so,” Grantaire couldn’t help but interject sharply. “The Underworld is no place for someone like you.”

And Enjolras was smiling again, hopelessly, affection in the pink flush of his cheeks and the tilt of his head. This time Grantaire was drawn forward, but stopped that motion before he could presume.

“I thought the exact same thing of _you_ , you know.” Enjolras stepped forward. The tension in his shoulders gave away his embarrassment, but he held out his hand toward Grantaire nonetheless. “The only thing that got me out of there with my mind intact was the thought of you. Your encouragement. Your strength.”

“I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong god,” Grantaire said a bit dazedly, when his hand drifted up of its own accord to fall in Enjolras’s palm. “I’ve no domain over such things as encouragement and strength.”

“Your _encouragement_ and _strength_ ,” Enjolras insisted. Their fingertips played over each other as they pressed together, palm-to-palm. “I shall worship them in you _personally_ if I must.”

“If you must,” Grantaire echoed, watching sunlight danced teasingly in Enjolras’s eyes. Grantaire found the corners of his mouth flicking up into a smile, hopelessly. “Will you sacrifice a hundred goats? Soak the earth with honey wine?”

“I think I would go straight to the source, and worship as a pious priest.” Enjolras’s fingers drummed against Grantaire’s. “Hands clasped in devotion, lips speaking prayer.” His gaze flickered down to Grantaire’s mouth, eyes half-lidded, lashes a slow fan. A swallow. A breathless huff of disbelieving laughter. “Let lips do what hands do.”

Their kiss was gentle, but the surge of _feeling_ through Grantaire certainly wasn’t. He grinned sheepishly into the kiss when a mess of bright yellow dandelions grew beneath their feet. Enjolras outright laughed as the flowers curled into themselves and became feather-topped seeds, and each little ball burst into a shower of white. Wind came as the earth grew as heated as Enjolras’s cheeks, and the seeds spiraled around them in a happy dance, elation in the air, before each fluttering away.

Then all of a sudden, Enjolras pulled away, a light crease at his brow.

“This reminds me,” he said, voice pitched strangely. “My sheep are gone.”

“…what?”

“My flock of sheep, they’re all gone.” Though Enjolras kept close, Grantaire couldn’t help but miss the press of their chests, the warmth of Enjolras against him. “I thought I would keep them here for one night, the night Fantine and Cosette left. But now, they’ve all disappeared.”

“Did someone take them?” Grantaire offered, though he was still utterly bewildered by this turn of conversation.

“Ah, that would be me.” Enjolras and Grantaire both turned to the source of the new voice— a young man with a headful of brown, curly hair. He was on feet, but had managed, somehow, to elude the two gods. His smile was dimpled and a little too wide to be properly guilty for taking the sheep. “You must be Dionysus and Apollo. They said you would come.”

“Who?” Enjolras asked suspiciously.

“Hermes and, um, Apollo. Old Apollo. And Old Hermes, I guess, technically.”

“Oh. _Oh_.” The pieces of an entirely unfortunate puzzle were sliding together for Grantaire. “Don’t tell me— _you_?”

“Yes, _me_ ,” the newcomer said, beaming. He clicked his heels together, and wings fluttered open from his sandals— Enjolras’s eyes widened in realization. Oh, this was going to be interesting. 

“I am Courfeyrac— New Hermes, God of Shepherds and Thieves and Liars. At your service.”


	3. Footnotes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't find a way to format these as actual footnotes, so they're more like _Quotes from the fic_ followed up by my explanations.

**_As an adult, Enjolras was said to have carried his ailing mother to the top of a mountain, where she was ordered to recuperate by Asclepius himself._ **

Asclepius is the god of medicine. Apollo had an affair with Coronis and she became pregnant with Asclepius. However, when Apollo learned that Coronis cheated on him, he kills her in a moment of rage (the raven, who was the messenger, was also burned black). Immediately overcome with guilt, Apollo saves the child from Coronis’s body, and Hermes takes the child to Chiron to be raised. Asclepius, as a result, shares cultic worship with Dionysus as a “twice-born” deity; Hermes is the psychopomp, messenger between the living and the dead, and the one to shepherd both infants, implying both Dionysus and Asclepius had been killed, then revived. Since Joly and Grantaire are good friends, I thought it’d be fun to have that level of mythic connection as well.

Asclepius learned from Chiron the art of healing, and became so proficient a healer that he could bring people back from the dead. Hades complains about Asclepius upsetting the natural order of the world, and Zeus strikes Asclepius dead. Apollo is angered by this, and stories differ about whether Asclepius is immortalized among the stars or brought fully back to life.

**_He understood family, after all, all the strengths and cracks in its structure; institutions founded on principles of obeisance were well within Grantaire’s purview as the God of Wine, the life-force liquid of civilizations._ **

Dionysus, while most famously the God of Wine, is also the God of Life-force Liquids— specifically, sap, blood, and semen. Wine played an interesting symbol of civilization for the Ancient Greeks. They meant culture, because only the civilized had the means to ferment grapes properly and turn them into wine. However, they also meant the loss of civility, as drunkenness takes over the senses and turn men back to beasts. Dionysus is the ultimate god of these in-between spaces.

**_“Who are you?” Enjolras asked, voice schooled into a level of politeness within the dictates of xenia._ **

Xenia is a major guiding principle in Greek culture— it means “stranger” and “outsider” (as in xenophobia), but it also means “guest,” someone to be hosted. Xenia dictates the hospitality and interaction between host and guest, and was absolutely vital in days of dangerous travel. One famous myth of Dionysus has him kidnapped by pirates, who held him for ransom— that was the state of traveling in ancient times, so this culture of hospitality developed.

**_Usually there were drawn swords or— in one spectacular case— cross-dressing and attempted matricide._ **

The _Bacchae_ by Euripides: Dionysus returns to Thebes, which is ruled by his young cousin Pentheus, who refuses to worship the Dionysian cult. Dionysus drives Agave, Pentheus’s mother, along with all the other women into Bacchanal frenzy, and they all run up the mountain to participate in wild dancing and orgiastic rituals. Pentheus, to defend his right to rule and masculinity, sends out his armies to capture and even kill the women.

**_But here… here stood a dangerous creature, one that made his half-mortal blood run hot in Grantaire’s veins._ **

Dionysus actually has a very interesting relationship to the rest of the Pantheon. He is born of Semele, a mortal woman, and Zeus. However, while he was still a fetus, Semele asked to see the true form of Zeus (of her own will or by Hera’s trickery), and was burned to death as a result. The fetus was sewn up in a repentant Zeus’s thigh, and Dionysus was then born to Zeus. This is arguably his divine birth, meaning he is no longer part mortal. This also earned him the title of “The Twice-Born God,” and his cult featured him heavily as a god who can traverse Life and Death. Semele is a daughter in the House of Cadmus, famous for its heroes (tragic heroes, sometimes, as the case with Oedipus and Antigone), and Dionysus actually fulfills all the steps of the archetypical “Heroic Pattern,” further binding him as a god in the mortal realm, not lofty Olympus. 

**_Cassandra’s plight is real in all of us, in face of so great a deity as societal structure._ **

Cassandra had caught Apollo’s eye, and when Apollo propositioned her, he offered her the gift of prophecy. Cassandra accepted the gift, but refused Apollo’s advances, so Apollo further cursed her— all of her prophecies will be true, but nobody will believe her. Many analyses have been done about Cassandra’s curse being the curse of all women.

**_It’s as ancient and unchangeable as Tartarus._ **

According to Hesiod’s _Theogony_ , Tartarus was born of Chaos after Gaia (Earth). Tartarus is the depths of the Underworld, where the worst criminals receive their punishments in death. 

**_The wine tasted cheap and disgusting, even without Enjolras watering it down._ **

Wine was the staple drink of Ancient Greece— you don’t drink water, you drink watered-down wine.

**_Would Prometheus have dared defy Zeus otherwise?_ **

Prometheus, his name meaning Forethought, was the Titan responsible for the separation between gods and humans. He’s best known for being the guy that stole fire for humans and was punished by being chained to a rock and having his liver torn out by an eagle everyday. The lead-up to that, though, is less well-known, and is the reason humans eat meat and sacrifice the bones to gods— Feuilly explains this later.

**_Tantalus suffers a fate worse than death for trying to bring down the gods._ **

Because gods keep their immortality by not consuming mortal meat, Tantalus attempts to trick the gods by slaying his own son, Pelops, and feeding him to the gods. The gods weren’t fooled (except Demeter, who was still shaken by Persephone’s disappearance at this point and accidentally eats a shoulder). After sending Tantalus to his eternal punishment, they revive Pelops, who later becomes a great king and has the Peloponnese named after him.

**_like the great floods of the old days_ **

Exasperated by the evil of humanity, Zeus and Poseidon send a flood. Only two humans survive, Deucalion and Pyrrha, husband and wife, by means of an ark. They repopulate the earth by throwing stones over their shoulders; those thrown by Deucalion became men and those threw by Pyrrha became women. Their line will later become the House of Aeolus, from which the hero Jason is born.

**_And yet, he spoke as if he’s moved more mountains than the Earthshaker, won more wars than Athena Promachos._  **

Poseidon is the God of Earthquakes, Horses, and the Sea. One of his epithets is Earthshaker. Athena too has many epithets, and Promachos is one that means “at the frontlines of battle.”

**_With a stern expression, Feuilly pointed a warning finger at Artemis._ **

Hecate is an interesting goddess, rewarded highest honors by Zeus. There’s a whole section in the _Theogony_ dedicated to how much Zeus honors her. Prior to the arrival of Hellenic religion (the patriarchal Pantheon), the major religions of the region (primarily on Crete, the Cyclades, and Mycenae) were all goddess-centric. So a way to interpret many of the “Zeus conquers women” stories is to see it as the patriarchal overtaking of an older, matriarchal tradition. Hecate is from the older traditions, the Goddess of Magic and Crossroads, and basically breaks all of the rules with little effort and no punishment.

**_When he wanted to, Grantaire affected apathy quite well— patron god of theater and all that._ **

While Dionysus doesn’t have domain over the theater (that’s the Muses), worship of him is definitely performance-centric. The Dionysian cult affected _ekstasis_ , to be outside of oneself, and through theatrical performances, it culminates in _katharsis_ , which is the wringing out of emotion. At the City Dionysia festival, three tragedies would be performed in a row, wringing its audience emotionally dry, and be followed up by comedy and satire. The famous Greek playwrights earned their triumphs at the Dionysia. 

**_To be subversive is to hope for affecting actual change, and every drop of ichor in Grantaire’s body found that possibility repellent._ **

Gods don’t have blood, they have ichor.

**_Artemis’s glare alone could flay the Nemean Lion_ **

Heracles famously slayed the Nemean Lion for his first labor. The lion’s hide is impervious to knives and spears; Heracles choked it to death. Afterwards, using the lion’s own claws, Heracles skinned it and kept its pelt as armor. 

**_Pelias prays the wrong way, and Hera destroys his family._ **

Just to fuck up Pelias’s shit, Hera instigates a whole scenario, making Jason sail to Colchis with the Argonauts and making Medea fall in love with Jason. Hera is famously Jason’s patron helper deity, but only for the sake of getting Medea. Pelias kills Jason’s parents, and to get revenge, Medea tricks Pelias’s daughters into believing she could make Pelias young again. Medea shows the daughters an old goat, kills it and chops it to pieces, and throws it into a rigged cauldron (all the while waving her arms and saying abracadabra). From the cauldron she pulls a fresh young goat, and the daughters fall for it. Of course, when the daughters kill and chop up Pelias, there is no magic, and Hera’s revenge is complete.

**_To Grantaire’s surprise, there sat three dining couches in the kitchen area, right next to the cooking stoves— a curious mix of the men’s symposium and womanly cooking._ **

Even in the house, spheres of life were completely separate for Ancient Greek men and women. Greeks also dined while reclining on couches.

**_How do you even hope to compare to the amazing Heracles, who slaughtered his wife and children? The great Theseus, who lied to and abandoned Ariadne to my horrid hands?_ **

To be fair, Hera drove Heracles mad, and he killed his wife Megara and their three children as a result. (The miasma, or taint, he gathers as a result is the reason he had to do the twelve labors. He’s promised to be cleansed after he’s finished them.) Theseus is just an ass; after promising Ariadne marriage in exchange for help navigating the Labyrinth, he ditches her on the island of Naxos. There, Dionysus finds her, falls in love, and they live happily ever after.

**_She built her house by herself, you know— apparently she took notes when Daedalus was around._ **

Daedalus built the wooden cow for Pasiphae when Pasiphae wanted to consummate her passions with the Cretan Bull, thus giving birth to the Minotaur. Daedalus was also the architect who built the Labyrinth, into which the Minotaur was trapped, and all the tributes were sent.

**_When Fantine took the cloth, their hands touched— a test that Fantine made no attempt to hide, as she stared expectantly at Grantaire._ **

Unmarried men and women touching???? Unthinkable!

**_Don’t gods wear magic clothes?_ **

Aphrodite has a magical girdle that makes the wearer the most sexually desirable person in the room. She’s always wearing it, and sometimes lends it out.

**_And who but the Farshooter himself should walk in at that very moment._ **

While Artemis’s bow and arrows were symbols of hunting, Apollo’s were symbols of sudden death (he is actually the God of Archery and Sudden Death). One of his epithets is Farshooter because it is thought that whenever someone should fall dead with no apparent cause (heart attacks?), it is because Apollo shot him from afar. 

**_“My sister used to love a man.”_ **

Artemis’s one and only mythological love is the hunter Orion. They were never lovers, however, because Apollo tricks her into shooting Orion from afar. There is no canonical reason for Apollo’s trickery, I told one possible version. Orion is immortalized in the stars— hence the constellation Orion’s Belt.

**_All things in moderation_ **

The Apollonian cult has two primary philosophies: “Everything in Moderation” and “Know Thyself.” It’s interesting, because while these are values associated with “the Apollonian,” Apollo himself didn’t seem to comply to these very much. At best, he undergoes character development through myth and learns these philosophies. 

**_The Lady Hestia first came up with the concept._ **

Hestia is a sister of Hera, Demeter, Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades. She was one of the Pantheon, but gave up her seat with the arrival of Dionysus. She presides as the Goddess of the Hearth, being the center of all households and civilization (really, she didn’t need to be an Olympian to be worshipped).

**_Orpheus, perhaps, conducting the very veins of metal in the earth— but he was ultimately human, and had no place in the realm of Hades._ **

Orpheus entranced the Underworld with his music to fetch his wife Eurydice. As he is leading Eurydice’s soul back into the mortal realm, Persephone warns him not to look back. At the edge of the realms, Orpheus looks back, and Eurydice is lost to him forever.

The Greeks had a very specific understanding about death— that it is forever, and nothing follows. There is a famous exchange between Odysseus and the dead Achilles in Homer; Odysseus says Achilles, who was revered as a god in life, is now lord of all the dead, “So grieve no more at dying, great Achilles.” Achilles replies, “No winning words about death to me, shining Odysseus! By god, I’d rather slave on earth for another man— some dirt-poor tenant farmer who scrapes to keep alive— than rule down here over all the breathless dead.” It perfectly illustrates just how hopeless a situation death is to the Ancients.

So Orpheus and Dionysus (and even Asclepius, to some extent) became important figures because they “cheated death.” Orphism is the cult and philosophy based on his story that really took hold during the 6th century BC, and introduced the idea of salvation after death.

**_You’re going to hear voices, but you cannot listen._ **

Actually, the dead are characterized by Homer to be incapable of speech— at least, not with mortals. They don’t recognize mortals, either. The voices I want here are of literal death, the notion that life is a death sentence, and ultimately, it is far easier to die than it is to live. That is the true danger of the Underworld— how easy it is to just stay.

**_Child, please, spare coin… Help…_ **

The dead were buried with a coin in their mouth to pay fare for Charon, the ferryman who will carry souls across the River Styx. Those without coin have to stay on the shores for a hundred years. 

**_I had forgotten that you lacked divine blood._ **

Really, the only people who even dare to venture into the Underworld are the divine or the half-divine.

**_They were standing at the foot of a steep hill, and Enjolras could just make out a moving figure near the top. To their left, a flock of winged women, looking haggard and bitter, flew back and forth over the top of a giant jar with holes at its bottom, attempting to fill the reservoir with little pots of water._  **

The figure on the hill is Sisyphus, doomed to push a boulder to the top of the cliff, only to have it roll down before he can, for the rest of his life. The winged women are the Danaids, forty-nine daughters of Danaus. Danaus and his brother Egyptus ruled different parts of Asia Minor, and Egyptus proposes that his fifty sons marry Danaus’s fifty daughters. Danaus believes the marriages are a ploy for Egyptus to take over his kingdom, so he takes his daugters and escape to Argos. However, Egyptus pursues him, and Danaus finally agrees. However, he gives each daughter a knife to kill her betrothed with. Forty-nine of them do as they are told, and the fiftieth, Hypermnestra, spares Lynceus, because he did not press to consummate their marriage. The forty-nine daughters are punished in Tartarus to eternally fill a leaking jar with water. Hypermnestra and Lynceus are ancestors of Perseus, and then later Heracles.

**_“I have contacts up north,” Apollo answered._  **

Every year, Apollo is said to go north to the Hyperboreans— for a ski trip, I presume. In that time, Dionysus actually takes over his temple, and is worshipped in Apollo’s stead.

**_“You’ll do it because you love me,” Apollo just said with a now-happy smile, standing up. Hermes couldn’t quite hide his grin._ **

Not gonna lie, I ship it. Hermes’s origin story is entirely wrapped up in Apollo. First, he steals Apollo’s cattle, then sacrifices them properly. Apollo wants to be mad, but then Hermes gives him the lyre, which was invented by Hermes. They trade domains— Apollo used to be Protector of Flocks, but that title’s given to Hermes; and one of Apollo’s main identifying markers becomes the lyre. And then they declare their undying brotherly love for each other and live happily ever after. Seriously— they even have threesomes with women.


End file.
